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Gavin Douglas 










1 

Gavin Douglas 


BY 

JOHN SILLARS 

AUTHOR OF ‘THE McBRIDES 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 





?z^ 

A5-S4 



Copyright, 1924, 

By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 




PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 


Printed by Geo. H. Ellis Co. (Inc ) 
Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A. 

Bound by The Boston Bookbinding Compant 
Cambridge, Massachusetts, U.S.A. 


Av 


JUL 31 *24 

IC1A800321 , 






TO 


CHARLES BURNS 


JUNIOR 



CONTENTS 


BOOK I. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. THE BOY.3 

n. ON THE ROCK.9 

III. KATHERINE.15 

IV. DUNGANNON.24 

V. THE WILDERNESS.33 

VI. IN WHICH DUNGANNON VISITS THE WILDER¬ 

NESS . 41 

vn. GAVIN BUILDS THE LOOK-OUT.49 

VIII. MAIRI VOULLIE VHOR ON HISTORY . ' . . . 54 

IX. HOW IRENE LANDED ON THE ROCK . . . . 66 

X. GAVIN WATCHES HIS ARMOUR. 74 

BOOK II. 

I. IN THE LOOK-OUT. 85 

II. IN WHICH DUNGANNON GETS A HAND’S JOB 

BEFORE THE MAST. 98 

III. TELLS HOW WORD CAME FROM THE EAST . . 106 

IV. TELLS HOW PATE DOL PUT GAVIN TO SLEEP AND 

IRENE LANDED ON THE ROCK THE SECOND 

TIME.113 

vii 












CONTENTS 


viii 


V. TELLS HOW THE LOCH WAS EMPTY .... 121 

VI. TELLS HOW GAVIN’s MOTHER CAME FROM THE 

WILDERNESS.126 

VII. TELLS HOW GAVIN LEAVES THE ROCK . . . 135 


BOOK III. 

I. TELLS HOW GAVIN MET LA BELLE GRECQUE . 149 
H. TELLS HOW GAVIN JOURNEYS WITH SHOLTO 
DOUGLAS AND MEETS ONE TERRIBLE 

BONNY AND RAISED-LIKE.162 

III. THE DESERT DUEL.174 

iv. how Dungannon’s longing came over him 

AGAIN, AND HOW PATE DOL SAID SOME¬ 
THING CLEVER.. . .186 

V. TELLS OF A WILD NIGHT RIDE AND TWO 

WOMEN. 198 

VI. TELLS HOW GAVIN GREW HOMESICK . . . 214 

VII. THE AMIR ABDUL AND MARJORY DOUGLAS . . 225 

BOOK IV. 


I. OF HOW THE DOCTOR HEARS OF GAVIN . . .239 

II. HOW IRENE SAILED FOR THE EAST .... 248 

III. HOW GAVIN HEARS FROM HOME . . . .266 

IV. IRENE AND MARJORY. 276 

V. IRENE AND GAVIN. 282 

vi. Dungannon’s letter. 296 

VII. THE END . . . . . QOfi 












BOOK I. 





GAVIN DOUGLAS. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE BOY. 

Dr. Ludovic Campbell shook hands with his friend, 
pulled a great leather chair close to the fire, and sat 
down. 

“Well, James /’ said he, “it’s ill talking between 
a full man and a fasting—not that you are precisely 
full, but it’s entirely evident that you’ve dined well.” 

The dark man at the other side of the fire smiled 
a grim smile, disdaining to answer. He was a keen 
dark-visaged man with eyes slanting upwards a little, 
as you will have seen in old Stuart portraits: a thin 
beak of a nose, a long close-lipped rather brutal 
mouth, and a bold chin. He was James Douglas, K.C. 

“I wish you to examine my son,” said he, and 
pressed the bell. 

“Is Gavin ailing?” said Campbell quickly, as a 
nurse entered, leading a sleepy, cross, boy of four 
years, who came shyly forward and stood at his 
father’s knee. 

“No,” said Douglas, when the nurse had left the 
3 



4 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


room. “No, but is he fit to bear wind and rain, 
storm and calm, hardship and toil, for that will be 
his rearing ?” 

The doctor smiled. 

“Poor boy! Come here till I see if your conscience 
is sound—a namesake of your own found one once 
that clattered. What is your name, wee man?” said 
he. 

“Gavin Sholto Alexander William James Archi¬ 
bald Douglas.” 

“Good boy, splendid! Behold a troop cometh . . . 
Well, you can bring the nurse back and send the boy 
to bed. He’s as sound as a bell; he needs no ex¬ 
amination. ’ 9 

In a moment the nurse stood at the door, one white 
hand outstretched, and at sight of her the child 
straightened himself and his face flushed dark red. 

“Abay you go!” he cried through clenched teeth. 
“Abay you go; I don’t mant you!” and he stamped 
his foot at her. 

“Bless my soul!” said the doctor, “there’s fire for 
you!” 

“Gavin!” 

At his father’s word the boy turned. There were 
tears all aglisten on his long lashes, and his eyes 
sparkled. 

‘ ‘ I mant my mam, oh, I mant my mam, ’ ’ and then, 
without another word, he ran from the room. 

The doctor poured a stiff glass and handed it to 
Douglas. 

“Drink that,” said he, “and don’t sit there like 
an iron man.” 

A cinder fell noisily in the grate, a clock struck 
remorselessly. There came that silence which is more 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


5 


than silence, that silence that fidgets a nervous man 
and makes a woman become uneasy; but these two 
sat on, disdainful as rocks on a shore with the waves 
hurling and seething round them. 

“Ay,” said Douglas, “and that’s what it is to be 
married.” 

“I suppose you expected more—you, James 
Douglas,—well, well, maybe you could not help it. 
We are as we are made, but I’m thinking this, when 
you look on that boy of yours, your name and your 
blood, you might take shame to think ill of his 
mother, and that’s what I never will do. Divorced 
or not, I’ll think no ill of Janet Erskine.” 

“Do not mention her name,” said Douglas through 
his teeth. “I am ~bye with that woman,” and he 
gazed into the fire, his chin sunk on his chest. * 1 Oh, 
man, my house is fallen about me. Firstly there’s 
my brother Sholto’s death—Sholto is killed on a hunt¬ 
ing trip in Africa,—and then there is the scandal 
anent his wife—it’s well that he never lived to learn 
her carry on,—and now my very wife is false. I 
tried, man, to keep my name from the gutter— 
begged for an explanation,—but all she would say 
was, ‘Can ye not trust me?’ Trust her, and her 
very servants telling of her trafficking with a man— 
here and there—trust her! No, I’ll trust no women, 
and I ’ll rear my son to hate them—trust her ... ! ” 

“But you did not—pride, James, pride. You are 
worse than the poor woman in the Scriptures that 
suffered from the bloody flux. That at least, and 
with no thought of blasphemy, was amenable to 
treatment, but you suffer from the Bleeding Heart , 1 
and that’s clean outwith the field of medicine. I’ve 
i Douglas Crest. 


6 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


observed it, man, on your shalt in the park. There, 
in thought, you rode in martial gear, like your an¬ 
cestor of old, with twelve hunner horsemen at your 
tail, and the Tower of London might have been 
blown up for all you noticed. In your moments of 
leisure, you are nothing but an interesting relic of 
‘old, forgotten, far-off things and battles long ago.’ 99 
“Man, I wonder to hear you talk like that, Ludovic 
Campbell. I could make your red Campbell blood 
work like barm. Glencoe, man, clean (and dirty) 
Campbell business yon—deid weans in the snaw, and 
barefit women with their throats cut and worse. Me 
for the winning side, says the crook-mouthed Camp¬ 
bell. It's a far cry to Loch Awe, but a full sporran 
makes the road light. You and your Lord John of 
Battles! You and your Maccallum Mhor!—out on 
your snivelling Whigs! The pity of it is that the 
tribe was not smitten out at Inverlochy. ’’ There was 
a mocking gleam in the lawyer's eyes, there was a 
snarl in his voice; but the Campbell sat at ease, albeit 
the colour in his cheek was high and his eyelid had 
a droop in keeping with his bitter smile. 

Have ye done?" said he. “Your history is like 
your breed—it's treacherous in places. I’ll admit 
you’ve made me thrill. Many a swanky, yauld lad 
lay stark on the heather for less. Snicker man, 
snicker away. They were great folk, the Douglas! 
They only differ from my clan in that your treachery 
was black, and red, both. You can tell me of the 

good Lord James and his seventy-two encounters_ 

as a Scot I’m proud of him,—but can you tell me 
whatna pitched battle brought forth his son, the 
Black Knight of Liddesdale, with a bar sinister? 
Bell the Cat, Tineman, and Gross James, I ken them 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


7 


a 7 , but the dead Douglas o 7 Otterburn was the bon¬ 
niest—and bonnier for that he was deid . 77 

“Ay, Ludovic, we 7 re like bairns, blethering and 
havering on old forgotten far-off things, and getting 
heated over battles long ago—forgot and better forgot 
maybe. Well, I’m for the North, and you are com¬ 
ing with me . 77 

“The North , 77 said the doctor; “what talk is this? 
You are not letting go the trams because of this 
flagarie? There 7 s politics, man, if you’re tired of 
the law—you’re a young man,—the ball is still at 
your foot . 77 

“I 7 m tired, man, tired. I want to be in the open, 
to feel the rain, to hear the plash of oars. I’m for 
the Rock, and you are coming with me . 77 

“It 7 s the first I 7 ve heard of it. Who’ll educate 
Gavin on the Rock ? ” 

“Listen, man,” said Douglas; “it’s long since you 
were for retiring. Sell the practice and live with 
Gavin and me. Ludovic, we’ll make a man of him— 
a Norseman, a bowman, a horseman, a knight, and 
never a woman near him, except Mairi on the Rock . 7 7 

“But his mother will have to visit the boy. I 
think that his mother would be the last to let the 
boy out of her sight.” 

“That has been arranged,” said Douglas with a 
sigh. “ ‘ She ’ll come , 7 she says, ‘when we find that 
we need her, and not before . 7 She is very bitter.” 

“And I do not wonder either. A woman’s life 
wasted on the evidence of hirelings! You will have 
no women about him, you say?” 

“There will be no women about us, except Pate’s 
wife . 7 7 

“Ay, well, Mairi 7 s a sensible body. I would rather 


8 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


no women than a bad one. That’s where I differ 
from the lave. And I will say this, and then have 
done. I ken the breed of Janet Erskine, your wife 
—your divorced wife,—and there was no crooked¬ 
ness in that stock. You will find that out or all’s 
done. It does not take a Philadelphia lawyer to 
see that. Let me hear your plans for the life on the 
Rock.” 

While Douglas spoke the doctor rolled himself a 
cigarette, a frown on his brow. 

11 What was the scandal about Sholto’s wife?” 

said he. “I remember the case-” and he lit his 

cigarette and waited. 

“Sholto was soldiering in India,” said Douglas 
impatiently, “and his wife gadding here in London, 
and folk talking. There was a man, of course. Then 
the man was found dead on his own hearth. ’ ’ 

*‘ Heart failure, ’ ’ said the doctor. 

“Sholto’s wife had been in his rooms that day,” 
said Douglas, “but at the inquest she could give no 
evidence. She was deranged. Then came the word 
of Sholto’s death.” 

“Are you sure that Sholto’s dead?” Campbell’s 
face was pale. 

“Sure, man? His effects are hame—it would make 
ye greet,—and the residue of his estate to pass to 
Gavin. He has spent a lot of money, too, for all 
that’s left, but he was aye wild for horses and racing. 
Aye, he’s deid.” 

Douglas groaned. His clenched fist smashed down 
on the table. 

“Damn women! Damn them! Let me rear the 
boy away from them, for the boy is all that I have 
left.” 



CHAPTER II. 


ON THE ROCK. 

Thus it was that on a summer day—a real summer 
day, with a sparkling, and winking, and glittering, on 
the sea, and a merry little plout and plash of waves 
on the gravelly shore of the Rock,—thus it was, that 
on such a day, you might have seen three figures 
crawling slowly in the drills of young turnips. A 
humbling job, with the hot sun burning the hack of 
the neck, and blistering the arms—a job requiring an 
infinite deal of patience, crawling on sack-covered 
itching knees, from head-rig to head-rig. 

The boy we saw in London gave promise of wide 
shoulders and a lean flank. He moved like a young 
savage, swift, and sudden, and graceful. His associa¬ 
tion with adults had given him an air of gravity 
foreign to his years; his talk was man’s talk, with 
few childish mannerisms at all. He was then in the 
throes of becoming an archer—a bowman,^-and, in 
the early mornings, you might see two grave men in 
bathing suits walking across the short, crisp, salt turf 
to the sea, and the little bare figure skipping between 
them, with a wisp of a shirt in his hand. Never a 
towel did his skin know, but after his leaping, and 
splashing, and valiant attempts at swimming, he 
would run on the grass by the shore, in wind or 


10 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


rain or shine, and his skin was become a warm, beau¬ 
tiful brown, like silk. There was no method of exer¬ 
cises, although the doctor strove with Muller’s in 
snow and rain, and felt better, as he said, when he 
got his clothes on again. 

After these early morning rites, Gavin mounted 
guard. He shot at a target with a real bow and 
arrow, pulling the arrow to his ear and letting the 
winged shaft fly. Stern were the orders regarding 
target practice. They began in this wise: “Only 
in exceptional circumstances shall a hen constitute 
a target, and then only with special permission.” 
Dogs, cows, and sheep were strictly taboo, but there 
were occasional crows, gulls, wild duck, and sea-fowl, 
for skilful stalking, on shore, and hill, and rock. 

It was Douglas’s special duty to keep the archer in 
stock of arrows and bows and cords, and there were 
special tests all prepared for the future—shooting at 
the ring, and the great endurance test of standing 
from sunrise to sunset with the arrow poised for 
flight. This was a terrible ordeal—to stand aiming 
at a target moment after moment, motionless, when 
every nerve sang, “Let loose!” Only one hour at 
the best could Gavin do yet, which disappointed him 
much, as the sun had not even thought of going down. 
Still, if his menfolk said “Stand fast!” he would 
stand fast—yes, till the Day of Pentecost, whatever 
that might be. 

In the long winter, there were mornings at the 
books, interspersed with the setting of traps, and the 
laying of snares, relieved by the baiting of long lines, 
the digging of cockles and log-worms for bait, the 
rowing in the jabble and glunk of a winter sea, when 
he would sit in the stern of the skiff, well oil-skinned 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


11 


and happed from cold, yet laughing when a splash 
of salt water from an oar stung his face. 

The long evenings were the best, sitting on a stool 
before the driftwood fire, listening starry-eyed, and 
with flushed face, to the deeds of the Norsemen, who 
had dropped anchor just outside the window, as it 
were, in the very water that he bathed in. The 
hills round the bay had looked on the black-prowed 
ships, the rocks had heard the surge of their oars, 
the very foot-soles of the rovers had been on this 
Rock: the marks of their hands were strange dumb 
messages of high adventure. 

Over there among the trees above Brodick came 
Bruce, hunted aind hunting, winding his horn, and 
following the red deer—Bruce, the great resplendent 
figure, that stood out like a tower; Bruce of the Axe, 
the Spider, the Brooch of Lome; Bruce that came 
later in his galley, splendid like a king indeed, in the 
calm autumn of his life. James, the good Lord, 
valiant in arms and merry, skilled in joyous music 
and old-time pranks, he with Boyd strode in yon 
heather, and from the very Point 1 the great king 
sailed his galleys to Turnberry, where always now the 
light twinkled, and went out, all through the night. 
In this strange mixture of tasks and tales, Gavin was 
left in a quandary. Certain he was that another king 
ruled the land, and yet he would be in no surprise 
to meet King Robert round any corner on the rocks, 
or to see Lord James himself scrambling after goats. 
For days he lived in a dazed splendour of the past. 
But there were days of turnip-thinning as on this 
day, when the creeping things of the earth were of 
greater moment. 


i King’s Cross Point. 


12 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


At midday on this day of turnip-thinning, Gavin 
was hoisted on to the back of Sal, the little mare, his 
bare toes digging into her moist warm sides, for all 
morning she had been grubbing with Pate Dol at the 
stilts, and no sooner had the sun touched the meridian 
than a great “Hoy, Gavin” resounded and re-echoed, 
for it was Gavin’s right to ride homewards. 

After Pate and Gavin came Douglas and Campbell, 
walking slowly, and with a great kicking from the 
knees to restore the circulation, and Douglas turned 
to the doctor. 

‘‘There’s a cruelty inherent in that boy,” said he. 

“Cruelty? Rubbish! There’s no inherent cruelty 
in the boy. Never mind the cockfights, or the crabs’ 
carnage—just boyish spirits. Think of Long John, 
the hen with the cork leg. There was a boy for 
you—fitted a cork leg on to Long John, after she 
was in the rat-trap and lost half of hers—fitted it 
on, and put a boot-nail in the sole of it,—and there 
she’s high-stepping around with her chickens this 
very day.” 

The doctor did not add that the nail was his idea, 
Gavin having preferred two hooks. 

“Oh,” he had cried, “she would have been a terror 
to fight with the fish-hooks, uncle!” 

At the stable, Gavin held earnest confab with Pate 
Dol. 

“-Has he sterted ye on Letin roots?” said Pate, 
dipping the feed-dish in the corn-kist and chewing 
thoughtfully at a seed. “Boy, if I had the Letin 
roots, I would have explored the hivins! An’ talkin’ 
of these celestial bodies, I wance saw the moon 
through a spygless—terrible plain, Gavin, aye, jist 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


13 


like a sheep’s inside. If I had had the Letin to 
fathom yon, it’s no’ feedin’ horse ye would be finding 
Pate at the day—no!” 

Gavin stood amaze, and then his eyes lit up. 

“Pate,” said he, “tell me, did ever ye see two 
horses fighting?” 

“Fight? Aye, fifty times! Up on the hm’ leg 
and battering wi’ the fore, the manes flying like rain 
clouds, the teeth flashing in the sun, then about 
ship and let go aft—a bonny sight, mind ye. Ay, 
an ’ the wee horse went round the big one like a cooper 
at a cask.” 

There came the clangour of a bell. 

“It’s time ye were prepared for the dinner,” said 
Pate, “for there’s Mairi Voullie Vhor at the bell 
hall.” 

“It’s the hall bell, Pate—bell hall is not grammar.” 

“Hoots! Pate will never be a grammar anyway, 
my bonny boy.” 

Left alone, Pate closed the corn-kist and lit his 
pipe. He was a thin wiry man, deep-chested and 
broad-backed, and maybe fifty years. His teeth 
were as white as a nut, his upper lip shaven, and 
he wore a full beard. Sailor he had been, fisherman 
and smackman, knowing the West Coast as he knew 
his palm; deer-watcher, wandering the roads and 
the parks all night long. Handy among sheep, and 
knowing the work on a croft, he yet maintained a 
simple belief in the wee folks, the bawkins, the spunk- 
ies, and those dread forms that come up out of the 
sea. 

His wife, Mairi Voullie Vhor, was older. She had 
the name of good looks once, but now only her eyes 


14 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


remained strangely blue, and young, and kind. One 
long eye-tooth alone remained, and, did she laugh, 
which was seldom, one would see the tip of her 
tongue and the great yellow tooth. 

Knowing these, you have the society of the Rock. 


CHAPTER III. 

KATHERINE. 

Pate Dol was in good fettle—his voice was raised in 
song, a high trembling voice, but hearty, for the 
thinning of the turnips was over. He had a short 
hoe braced against the corn-kist in the stable, and as 
he filed and sharpened the edge so that the earth 
would not clag, he kept time with a song, and Gavin 
lent a shrill treble. 

“My hert’s in the Highlands, my hert is not here, 

My hert’s in the Highlands, following the deer. 
Chasing the wild deer and following the roe, 

My hert’s in the Highlands wherever I go.” 

“Is that not the song of songs?” said Pate, and 
shouldering his hoe, he took Gavin’s hand in his and 
set off along the shore for the other side of the island, 
where there were here and there little patches of 
potatoes, for Ludovic Campbell had a mania for 
making land neatly. Where Douglas would be toil¬ 
ing with boulders, draining heather and skaling lime, 
the doctor would get a spade and dig little parks, like 
gardens, close to the sea, where the wrack was easy 
to gather. And at the lambing, he would caper like 
15 


16 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


a boy to see the ewes in the little green patches, 
where before had been stones and bracken. It was 
to such a patch that Gavin and Pate made their way 
this morning. Possibly no child of like age ever 
discussed more diverse subjects than Gavin Douglas, 
and this morning Pate listened to a sketchy lecture 
on the molecular theory. 

“I am not believing about these Molly Cules,” 
said Pate. * 4 It’s better to leave them things be— 
they’re not for us, and there’s another thing I’m not 
for. The doctor told me that it was his opinion 
that plants could see. Tatties hiv eyes in a wey o’ 
speaking, but I’ll tell you what he said. ‘It may 
be,’ says he to me, ‘it may be that at the great Day 
of Judgment a breckan bush will rise up and con¬ 
found ye, or the leaves o’ a tree.’ ‘I would make 
short work o ’ it gin it tried, ’ says I, and that nailed 
him. Mind you, Gavin, there are wonders ye know 
not. I wance kent a man that had the bird language 
—there would be off an’ on of fourteen books of it, 
which is no’ to be wondered at, for ye’ll have heard 
a lark filling a song-book—the words and the music 
—many’s the time, but this man told me ye worked 
up from the coo-koo, which had just two words and 
a spit (for rearing young clegs). I heard him mysel’ 
whistlin’ to a craw to go to the bad place, and it 
was that like it I understood him at wance, but the 
craw didna go till he told him repeatedly. ’ ’ 

Gavin was paying but little attention, for an ocean 
liner was passing, her brass-work aglitter, and the 
throb of her engines like a great heart. 

“There she goes,” cried Pate, and broke into 
“Shenandoah.” “Away we’re bound, away—across 
the wide Missouri.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


17 


But before she surges onwards and away, we will 
look for a little on her decks, and leave Pate and 
Gavin watching from the little green potato-patch. 

In the blaze of sunlight on the promenade deck of 
the liner, deck-chairs were already occupied, and in 
one of these, John Savage, the lumber king, sprawled 
at ease—a pleasant, strong, brown-faced man; still 
there were lines here and there, that might indicate 
to the thoughtful observer the Mr. J. San-guin-ary 
Savage of the West. Mr. Savage was not averse to 
the nom-de-guerre of his youth. 

“I guess it’s like the light of other days, that oP 
name,” he opined; “there’s something upliftin’ in 
that sobriquet; there’s precedent—the bloody Led¬ 
ger, the bloody Jeffreys, the bloody Balfour, but 
bloody Savage has them whipped—yes, sir,—whipped 
front and rear. Things were a bit hurried in Lon¬ 
don, else I’d ha’ had a portrait of The Bloody Sav¬ 
age—after a famous artist, maybe.” 

It will be seen that Mr. Savage had a grim humour. 
These pleasant day-dreams were shattered by a dainty 
little brown hand on his shoulder. 

“Have the steamer stopped, please,” came the 
quietest, most musical voice, from the quietest of thin 
little persons—little brown persons—imaginable. 

John Savage put his great arm round the little 
brown girl and smiled. 

“I guess that’s not possible, Indian Famine,” said 
he. 

The proud little head was raised, the brown eyes 
met his, level and fearless, the long thin neck arched. 

“I guess ’tis—if I say stop, it is stop.” There was 
no shrillness in the voice, no raised tone, but there 


18 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


was that timbre, that quality, that implies obedience. 
It was easy to see why her father called Irene Savage 
Indian Famine, ” easy for any one who has ever 
seen those horrible pictures in ‘Missionary Records/ 
pictures of children with long thin legs, long thin 
feet and hands, long necks and straight black hair; 
but there was health abounding in this child, glow¬ 
ing darkly in her cheeks and shining in her eyes. 
She reminded one of a thoroughbred foal, leggy and 
angular, yet full of grace. 

“Tell the man to turn the steering-wheel and let 
me play in that place we ’re coming to. ’ ’ 

“ 111 arrange to have that little island taken across 
some other time maybe. I guess we can fix a railing 
round it, and you can keep your pets there all right, 
but some other time. We would require to notify 
the Northern Lights Commission, and the Feudal 
Baron, and both Governments, before removing that 
landmark, so it 11 take time.” 

“Stop!” Irene’s white teeth shut, her little hand 
clenched, her red lips lost their curves. There was a 
storm coming. Savage was ready. 

Take the little girl, Miss Sheppard,” said he. 
“There now, Honey, run along and play with your 
kiddies.” 

“Miss Sheppard” was governess—Miss Prim Shep¬ 
pard, and surely were her sponsors specially gifted, 
for Miss Sheppard was prim indeed—the manner of 
holding her head a little to one side, with eyes 
modestly lowered, was prim; her little mouth made 
prim movements; her whole person was so precise, so 
just so, that the only word to describe her is “per- 
jink. ’ ’ There were, however, people of no account in 
the kitchen of the Savage mansion in N’York, who 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


19 


held the opinion that Miss Sheppard might yet, as it 
were, turn the Savage ensemble into a sheepfold. 

Miss Sheppard advanced timidly, smiling her sweet, 
prim smile; in her arms she carried a large doll, a 
wonderful doll, a doll to send little girls into ecstasies 
of potential motherhood, and possibly her childhood 
still lingered in the governess, so coy was she before 
John Savage. 

“Come, Irene dear, and nurse Baby Kate.” 

Irene turned from her father with never a word. 
She was ominously calm; her hands did tremble a 
little as she held them out for Baby Kate. And 
then a tornado descended, a fury—shaking, tearing, 
and twisting,—swift, and silent, and sudden, and even 
as John Savage leapt from his chair to prevent it, 
Baby Kate went sailing over the rails—and the sea 
took her. 

For a second—a moment—the prim look vanished 
from Miss Sheppard’s face; a look of honest temper 
clouded those down-looking eyes. 

“I guess she needs a mother,’’ said the millionaire, 
and the heart of the governess missed a beat. She 
looked up swiftly, and then lowered her eyes. 

“Dear little Irene,” she whispered. 

“I guess a mother would be the correct person to 
handle this squall, Miss Sheppard, but I’ll do my 
best. ’ ’ 

Irene put her hand in her father’s without a word, 
and they walked calmly from the deck. 

In their state-room, Indian Famine clung to her 
father, arms and legs and soul and body—great sobs 
shook her. Savage patted her gently. 

“I guess, Honey, you are a Savage—we’re both 
Savages; but I’ll tell you some day why it was 


20 GAVIN DOUGLAS 

mighty foolish to sling poor Kate overboard, Indian 
Famine dear.” 

“I-I-I-I l-loved Baby Kate," whispered Irene; “it 
was Miss Sheppard I-I wanted to kill, for s-smiling." 

Pate Dol and Gavin were wending homewards. It 
was evening, the sea calm, and gannets diving noisily. 
The mainland looked hazily blue. There were small 
boats anchored on the big bank, their varnished sides 
glittered in the sun; sheep were grazing in the high 
hefts. Now and then came the heartbroken plaintive 
ba-aa-aa of a lamb. Gavin stopped. 

Pate, he whispered, “ there’s a droll wee thing 
with long yellow hair lying on the rocks/ ’ 

“God look on us!” said Pate. “Is it brute or 
human ? ’ ’ 

“If it’s neither brute nor human, it’s a gull—that's 
poetry, but yon is no gull." 

Gavin ran forward, unheeding the cries of his com¬ 
panion. He peered at the object, touched it with a 
finger, and then, emboldened, lifted it by the feet and 
carried it head down to Pate. 

“It’s got capital K on its clothes," said he. “Oh, 
what is it, what is it?" 

Pate put his brown hand under the down-hanging 
head and lifted the body gently. Suddenly, with a 
sharp click, two blue eyes stared at him. Pate 
staggered. 

“It's a Click-ma-doodle," said he. “Put it away." 

There is no saying what might have happened to 
the ocean-born princess among dolls, for there was 
a light in the eye of Pate Dol, a light that boded 
not well for graven images, but round the north 
end of the shore came Mairi Voullie Vhor, searching. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


21 


“What have ye there?” she skraked, for her voice 
had a peculiar quality, a bleating harshness very 
bitter in anger, an intolerant lingual asgophony. 

“Ye tr-a-ash,” said she to Pate, “will ye keep that 
lamb stervin’ the livelong d-a-ay, an’ you at your 
bawdy sangs! Whose aucht that wean—a wandered 
gentry wean—some raking Banterpike’s mischance, 
with the dregs of the measles on it to smit my 
lamb.” 

“Woman,” said Pate, “this is nae wean; this is 
a Click-ma-doodle. I know them of old—she winks 
the eye.” 

“It is your eye will be winkin’ when I get ye 
hame. There will be brimstane burned the night 
before ye lay side to a bed. You and your Click-ma- 
doodle; it’s a wean’s playock, and nae poor wean’s 
either. This will be company for ye, Gavin, my 
hero, when I have put her to right with a guff of 
brimstane. The arm o’ her broken, too, an’ hangin’. 
If this is not a judgment on that stiff-necked man the 
father o’ ye. Katherine Douglas she’ll be, Kate Bar- 
lass wi’ the broken arm. Give her to me, my pet, and 
come away, for your pancakes are spoiled.” 

There was war with the coming of Katherine, for 
Mairi Voullie Vhor, casting, as it were, all dregs of 
measles, and kindred gentry ailments, from her wash- 
tub, presented Katherine, clothed in her splendour, 
to Gavin in his night gear. 

You see the old woman bending over the narrow 
white bed in the bare room. You hear the wonderful 
change of tone in her voice, that she had for weak 
things and Gavin only. 

“Put your arms round her, little darling,” she 


22 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


crooned. ‘ 1 There now, Katherine is lonesome for wee 
Gavin.” 

“Is she?” said Douglas from the bedroom door 
in a cold voice; “long may she weary. There goes 
no swaddling doll to bed with Gavin Douglas.” 

The old woman came round slowly; her face 
reddened. 

“James Douglas,” said she, “ye’ll let that inno¬ 
cent lamb have his playock or ye’ll rue it.” Her 
voice was a gage of battle, vituperative, venomous. 

Ludovic, at the doorway, nodded to himself and 
winked. 

“I’ll back the Voullie Vhor,” says he, in to himself. 

“You understand my wishes, of course,” says 
Douglas; “no softness, no women-coddling and 
twaddling about the boy. I had thought that you 
would be the last to indulge in this nonsense.” 

“Me the last—finely I ken what your meaning is— 
ye cold hard man; ye mean that I’m he enough to 
look at, with hair on my face and cabbach teeth; but, 
thank my Maker, I have not a stane in my hert. 
What are ye doing to the wean ? He’s not like a wean. 
When did ye hear him laughing? No’ since the day 
he pit a dart into the thick o’ Pate Dol’s leg and 
garred him loup, and rin, and claw himsel’. The dear 
lamb, did it not do my hert good to hear him laugh¬ 
ing, and the tears rinning on his cheeks. Ay’ an’ it 
soupled Pate Dol. . . . But here are ye with your 
sweeming, and rinning, and jumping, and bows and 
arrows, makin’ a trade o’ joy. What herm is in an 
innocent doll?” 

“She may be above suspicion, like Caesar’s wife.” 

“I carena what Caesar’s wife was above. If she 
wasna above takin’ that Nerra the fiddler, I’m thinkin’ 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


23 


she would be like Jean M’Crae, and she was like ither 
folk. If I’m to be here, that wean will be a wean 
sometimes, or I’ll let ye ken it. Ye wid not rear a 
horse like that, and break him in. Ye’ll let him run 
with colts and fillies, till he comes to himsel’ and kens 
his place, but Gavin, your ain flesh and blood, ye’ll 
turn loose in a world o’ lone weemen. Hech, is it a 
doll you’re scared o’? It’s the innocent lamb I’m 
feart for. God send I ’ll see him as well bedded when 
he’s wan and twenty. Mora, it’s little ye ken o’ 
weemen—that I should say it! Man and master as 
ye are, if ye lay a finger on that doll, I’ll set a lowe 
in the stacks. I’ll brust ye wi’ saltpetre in your 
broth, or salts o’ sorrel.” 

“God forbid,” cried the doctor. “I’ll no’ be 
poisoned at my time o’ life. You’re beat, James.” 

The old woman was trembling, still ready for 
defiance, but fearful of her powers after all. 

“Mairi,” said Douglas, and patted her on the back, 
“the pity is there are not more like you. Let him 
keep the doll if he likes. Go you to bed!” 

“Oh, man, I’ll put ye before the Throne,” said 
Mairi. “Poor man, poor man, ye had a hert once.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

DUNGANNON. 

If the Spartan training made Gavin’s body brown, 
and lean, and hard, surely the coming of Katherine 
brought to him a new world of beautiful dreams, 
like the sound of a melody floating and drifting over 
the sea, on a still night of moonlight. To her he 
unfolded all the wonders of his cloud images, the 
great castles of burnished silver, the fury of battle 
when knights, with plumes waving, rushed to the 
onset, the monstrous wild and changing beasts that 
hunted in the heavens—Katherine’s blue eyes beheld, 
and Katherine understood. At the bedding there was 
a solemn routine. 

“Can I come in, Katherine?” Gavin would whisper, 
standing barefooted in his night gear. 

“Yes,” would Katherine reply, with the tremulous¬ 
ness befitting the occasion, the tremulousness that 
might have seemed a little like Mairi’s segophony. 
Then all the adventures were related—the leaping 
of fish, the finding of the hive of wild bees, the 
secret place where the wild duck reared her brood. 
The blue eyes of Katherine never ceased to wonder, 
never became clouded or tired. 

Pate Dol shook his head at all this. 

24 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


25 


‘‘Gavin, Gavin,” he would say, “I am the sorrow¬ 
ful man to hear that you have given up your freedom 
to the Long-Haired One. Oh, man, the splores and 
the shoosts that you’ll miss, and her waiting up for 
ye. It is not weel managed. There’s nothing so wise 
in these affairs as the eider-drake—a wee while does 
him, and then away to sea goes the lad, out in the 
drift and the storm wi’ his mates. Ha, he’s the 
boy. ’ ’ 

Pate’s daily salutation was always the same. 

“I am hoping that the Long-Haired One is well.” 
But, alas! there came a day when Gavin had to 
confess that things were not well. 

“She was on the floor this morning, Pate, and her 
eyes shut,” said Gavin. 

“Clean stunned,” said Pate; “did she speak when 
she came round?” 

A doleful shake of the head. 

“This is ferocious bad—the one thing to do is 
apollochise. If it was a leeberty ye had taken, it’s 
me would be the very last to apollochise, but-” 

“What is a leeberty?” 

“Well, now, a leeberty would be the like of fetch¬ 
ing up alongside of her and cleeking. Sure and cer¬ 
tain, Gavin, that would be a leeberty. When the 
long-haired ones get to the cleeking, Gavin, then is 
the time for the linkin’ lad to stand to sea; but 
I’m thinking there’s nothing for it but apollochising. 
‘Mem,’ says you, ‘last night it was you was on the 
floor, and this night it will be me. ’ That ik the apollo¬ 
chising of a hero, and well to win’ward, too, for she 
will never be hearing tell of it.” 

But the apology would not work—Katherine was 
dumb with anger. 


26 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“It is this way, Gavin,’’ said Mairi; “she is hurt 
at you, poor Katherine. Ye were not nice to her, 
and here you are standing looking at her and talkin’, 
and doin’ more harm.” 

“But I wish she was better,” said Gavin, near to 
tears. 

“Put your arms round her, my lad; she’ll listen 
better that wey even if she wrastles a wee,” said 
Mairi, with a gleam of memories in her eyes. “That’s 
the fine fellow now,” and, laughing at her ploy, 
Mairi made her great error, and awakened a deadly 
pride. 

To his trembling words Katherine gave no trembling 
reply. No voice announced Katherine’s forgiveness, 
no voice painted Katherine’s tears, only blue re¬ 
proachful eyes stared. For a moment there was un¬ 
belief, amazement, and horror in Gavin’s face, then 
rage surged through him; his eyes shone, the red blood 
rose, flooding his neck and face and brow. 

“Take her away,” he stormed; “I can do without 
her. I don’t want her. Take her away.” 

“Guid guide us, what have I done!” cried Mairi, 
coming to herself; but it was vain for Katherine to 
speak now, vain her tears—her reign was over, and 
Gavin was rubbing his guernsey sleeves in a frenzy 
where they had touched her. He was shivering. 

His father laughed grimly. “That was my brave 
son,” said he. Ludovic Campbell mused, but old 
Mairi Voullie Vhor watched from then onwards. 

“There’s a man here growing,” said she. 

There is a thing now I will tell you that few of ye 
will ever behold. When the day was new, with the 
dews of sleep still resting, and only the voices of the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


27 


birds awake, and summer hasting to her bridal, came 
old Mairi to the bedside of Gavin. 

“Come, my darling,” said she, “haste ye fast,” 
and she took him by the hand and out of the house 
to the shore. The glory of that morning was with 
Gavin afterwards for ever, the sun shining on the 
cold blue morning sea, the soft mist rising against 
the green of the trees below Alasdair’s birch wood, 
and a great sailing-ship breaking out her sails. 

Across the little way of sea from shore to ship 
came voices mellowed, and the tramping of feet. Sea¬ 
gulls wheeled and screamed in the air, blue smoke 
hung over the houses across the bay. 

“ There’s tears and devilment in their sangs, 
dearie,” cried Mairi, who looked strangely uplifted 
and gallant, “tears and devilment and the gladness 
of the great hearts.” 

11 Sing, my lads, sing and make God glad. Oh, the 
sea and the ships and the sailors singing!” 

Now little ripples broke away from the bows of the 
sailing-ship, came a swirling weaving of waters in 
her wake; round she bore gallantly for the south 
entrance, and sail after sail broke, and fluttered, and 
swelled into place. 

Gavin trotted along the shore, his soul filled with 
the beauty and the wonder of the sight, and a yearn¬ 
ing sank on him as the ship squared away in the 
Firth, away out of his life into some other world; 
and then sadly he made his road homewards, this 
time on the track, on the raised beach above the 
shore. Where now there is an old broken stone dyke 
half-buried in heather, there was a man dancing, 
naked to the waist, his hair on end, and fiddling his 


own music. 


28 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“Ach, will ye be watching me?” he cried, and 
swayed this way and that, and threw his legs till the 
steam was rising from them. His clothes lay spread 
on the heather, and beside them a black oil-skin bag. 

“D’ye know the name of that chune, child av the 
light?” he cried. “ ‘Nor never heard tell of it,’ 
says you, little Fin Maccoul, and that’s M’Pherson’s 
rant. List till it now!” Again the bow tore the 
heart from the violin. * 1 The glory av it, the bravery, 
and it’s me will be tellin’ ye where it was now that 
M’Pherson captured that one. Below the ghallows, 
child av the day, below the bloody ghallows, and God 
lookin ’ down on him, dancing his road to purgathory. 
Oh, it’s the pity would be in the Shining Front, pity 
for the hot blood av the brave boy, that craved only 
the grip av a sword. List now, till ye hear the little 
thought in it for the auld mother, an’ then the leap¬ 
ing pride of a bold man, that was fearless in life and 
after. 

“All the chunes av all the lands it’s Pathrick 
Dunghannon has them.” 

“How did ye come here, Patrick Dungannon, with 
pictures on your bare feet?” said Gavin (for, indeed, 
on the bare feet were wonderful pictures in tattoo¬ 
ing) ; “and what will ye do?” 

“D’ye see yon lady av the sea yonder? it is from 
her I came, for that is the way av it with me; when 
I am at the wan thing there is another crying to me. 

. . . There we were lying in the bay for seven days, 
and me the happiest wid the fiddle in the fo ’c ’sle and 
the hornpipes going. Soul o ’ me, and every day when 
I would be with a kyar broom scrubbin’ the decks, 
was I not seein’ the goats coming tripping down the 
rocks, hop and skip an’ lep, wid a shake av an auld 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


29 


billy’s head and the smell av him in my nose. Glory 
to God, did I not travel the country wid them bastes, 
and sorrow and throuble was the price av them, but 
I would be looking at the seams on the deck, and 
thinking av the doldrums wid the pitch crawling out 
in slabbers, and then back to the hillside and the 
goats leppin’, and I put the fiddle in her bag and 
slipped away on the soles av my feet, in the dew av 
the deck. 

“Like a seal I came and lay all night in the gorse 
till she went proudly out like a young queen to her 
hunting, and then, to kill the sadness av her going 
I laid the bow on the strings, and M’Pherson called 
the chune. It is the hay and the corn I will work 
at, and maybe the handlin’ av a bit av a horse. 
Sorrow on the hay av this counthry, it has not the 
swate smell av the hay in my place yonder—and 
where are the threes that should be ? In the vale av 
Avoca ye would walk for miles on the threes, so thick 
they are. It’s you will be spakin’ a word for me now, 
for Pathrick is without a cowrie.” 

So came Patrick Dungannon to the Rock, with his 
red hair and droll ferntickled face, his love of strange 
lands—“Astralya an’ ’Frisco an’ the Roarin’ For¬ 
ties, ’ ’ a kind man, full of laughter and sudden blazing 
angers, childish anger, that would drive him to the fid¬ 
dle, but the drollest thing to Gavin was his tattooed feet. 

“He’s not all there,” said Pate Dol. “Did I not 
find him on God’s day sitting with his fiddle in the 
heck of Sal’s stall, and playing chunes that would be 
tearing the hert’s bluid out of a man? *1 would not 
sit in the manger,’ says he, ‘for there was the Holy 
Child laid, but I will be spaking to the horses, and 


30 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


giving them the music from the heck, for there may be 
a great one imprisoned in a horse for a punishment.’ ’’ 

“The devil will come for us—the hale o’ us,” said 
Mairi. 

“I left him that the dogs would not lick his blood, 
Mairi Voullie Vhor,” said Pate. “Hold your peace, 
woman, for the devil is not to be spoken of. He was 
wance the Star of the Morning, most glorious. Where 
under the divine canopy is there the match of that? 
Hold your peace, woman, and be humble.” 

“If I was at your lug with the beatle, Pate Dol, 
there would be more stars than wan in your mind,” 
cried Mairi, and at that Phte went from her. 

“Is she not enough to bring a judgment?” said he. 

Ludovic Cambell kept his scholar hard to the 
task—from the dark of the winter mornings till mid¬ 
day. Gavin would race from the sea in the winter, 
feeling the sting of the driving rain and spray, and 
Mairi scolding morning after morning, until a sort 
of tremendous pride came over her, and “hero” 
would be the least of her names for him. 

“The little folk will have him,” Dungannon would 
whisper. “Have I not seen them after him, laugh¬ 
ing and waving, in their little green surtous? but I 
will put the Cross on him.” 

Douglas was become a stern, silent, brooding man, 
except in the night, before the fire, with the maps 
and the books of history before him—the battles, and 
the castles, and the deeds of arms. Then his gloom 
lifted, his voice would thrill and rouse his young 
son. He saw visions, horses rearing, mail flashing 
in the moonlight. Great voices rose in the gale, there 
was clashing of arms, and armies with banners. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


31 


But with Pate and Dungannon sometimes there 
were wonderful stories of houses not of this world, 
built maybe in a hill; there were flat rocks where 
fairies danced; there were dread ships that sailed 
against wind and tide, when islesmen strained for 
port. Dungannon would so move the hoy with his 
weird playing that tears would stand in his eyes. So 
it was that while his body was like that of a young 
god, with long rippling muscles under a silken skin, 
the one part of his mind was of war and strife, and 
feats of strength, of running and hammer-throwing, 
of archery, and the joy of the sea; the other part 
was of dreams of unnamed creatures, beautiful as 
clouds, or the evening star in a pale sky. And Mairi, 
that old wise woman, saw that her error was over¬ 
come, the hardness that Katherine wrought was for¬ 
gotten, she thought, for Katherine was now only a 
doll, an example, as Ludovic Campbell said, of the 
female child, having clothing befitting the mind that 
clothed her, having universal joints, possibly, and a 
certain trick of working the eyes, common to the 
species. 

Dungannon had all the Irishman’s love of horse— 
the lore of horse—the wise things to be knowing, the 
lucky colours, the cure of ailments, the secret of the 
glossy skin and the silken mane, and Gavin treasured 
his lore, and remembered. I think that he never 
forgot a horse, having once looked him over, in his 
manhood. 

But Pate Dol was the one who had the great 
notions. There was, in the centre of the hill, a little 
lake, very small and shallow, and whiles maybe you 
would see wild duck there, and the feathers of sea- 
fowl floating upturned. On Saturdays they made 


32 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


great work, Pate and Gavin and Dungannon, and 
whiles Douglas and Campbell, and between them 
they made a great fine pond, having cunning little 
islands of rocks, and rushes, and plenty of water, and 
there Gavin put tame ducks, building shelters for 
them, and feeding them, and from the shore and 
the rocks came all manner of birds as to a refuge; 
and it was Dungannon who looked with Gavin at 
these wild duck, and heard far above the honk of 
geese flying in a V for the Urie Loch. 

“Would I not like to be where them fellows lighted 
down now!” said the Irishman. 

“Ye would be far from home, lad,” said Pate. 

Dungannon turned his eyes on him. 

“Have I ever been annything else?” said he, and 
that night his fiddle went wailing like a spirit, till 
Pate, moved in some way he knew not, cried to 
Mairi Voullie Vhor— 

“The Letin root of this music is unknown.” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE WILDERNESS. 

Intent on his archery, Gavin would often stand with 
the bowstring taut and gaze at a white house on 
the opposite shore. Whiles he would aim his arrow 
at the brown door of it, or at the sparkle of light 
from a window. He made fine stories to himself 
about this empty white house, in the little time 
between wakefulness and sleep, and he christened 
it “The Wilderness,’’ and peopled its empty rooms 
with smugglers, and the terrible folk of Dungannon’s 
tales, for he was always at the telling of weird 
stories. 

One dreadful creature, that haunted dangerous 
places (where boys must not climb), had his home in 
the white house. Gavin only dared whisper that 
fearful name in an ecstasy of terror, “Raw Head 
and Bloody Bones,” dreadful even in daylight. The 
Blind Tup that came for sleepy boys grazed in the 
grass there. 

And even in his games Gavin would stop and look 
long at the place, for there is something about a house 
—something indefinite, that yet can be felt. Why 
otherwise will one house look cheerful and another 
sad? “A creepy place,” you will hear people say, 
33 


34 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


usually in the gloaming, when trees are silent and 
dogs howl. Such a place was the Wilderness. Its 
windows had a hungry look, although the glass was 
usually intact, except at such times as boys will 
try their slings, but the paint was blistered on the 
door, blistered and peeled. Little grasses grew be¬ 
tween the flag-stones that formed the steps—grasses 
that grew and withered, and in winter days rustled 
and bent with the wind, as though they would eventu¬ 
ally force their way into the house and grow on the 
very hearth. The walls were whitewashed in the 
clean old-fashioned manner, but somehow there 
seemed always a stain of green fungus streaming 
downwards, as from wet thatch. The broad path 
that led from the shore to the front door had once 
been white, but now stout, sturdy, deep-rooting 
grasses had all but covered it, a miserable path in 
rain. The surrounding wall was of that kind known 
as a dry-stone dyke, but stones had fallen here and 
there; trees grew raggedly, being not large enough 
to be picturesque, even in their wildness. Neither 
flower nor fruit was there, but only a miserable cut 
of weeds and useless grass, that might, if well saved, 
be good bedding for beasts. 

Enough of the Wilderness as it was—an eerie place 
with its dim white walls on a winter’s night, and the 
sea fretting, and splashing, among the rocks and 
wrack, which all but concealed what was once a little 
port, for a rowing skiff belike. 

From the windows of the Wilderness, looking across 
two miles of ever-changing water, one would see the 
lights in the windows of the house on the Rock. On 
calm summer days one might hear the kye routing 
and roaring, or the bleating of the lambs at the time 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


35 


of their weaning. Then of a sudden came a change 
—workmen appeared, and horses carting. There 
was bustle and liveliness. Bent walls were straight¬ 
ened, and the old rusty iron gate was set at a new an¬ 
gle, so that it swung on its hinges without describing a 
half-circle on the path. Hedges were sawn ruthlessly, 
leaving that droll look one will associate with hair¬ 
cutting. There came vegetable plots and lawns, and 
plots for flowers, raised in circles, and ovals, and half¬ 
moons of rich earth. Turf was laid and flattened down. 
The wide path was white as new linen, with the 
marking of the rake always there. Great wide win¬ 
dows replaced the old hungry windows, and there 
was altogether an air of cheerfulness, and wellbeing, 
about the place, as in the blooming of the wilderness. 

Gavin found Mairi with the old telescope balanced 
on the dyke-top, and on her knees, spying at these 
new wonders as they appeared. 

“Yon place will let like fifty/’ said she, with a 
nod of her head. “That’s what it is to have a little 
money behind your hand.” 

“But why will it let like fifty?” asked the boy. 

“Because they’ll be asking the like of that an’ 
more for the two middle months, and good folk will 
come there, the kind that leaves scented soap at the 
end o’ the month —rale gentry , Gavin. If that Pate 
Dol had any smeddum in him, he would ken who 
is peying the piper for this improvement,” and with 
that, the old woman snapped home the glass and 
went back to the kitchen. 

But Pate Dol was not without news. “There is 
a lady staying yonder,’’ said he, “a big woman and 
a slow speaker, wi’ a kind of an English twang. 
She’s out in all kinds o’ weather pottering about the 


36 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


garden, delving wi’ a wee spade, and planting prim¬ 
roses and bluebells in neuks. They say she has a fine 
reading-lamp on a stand, that she can schlew fore and 
aft, to suit wherever she’s sitting at the time, and 
she’ll be feeding birds and speaking to them, an’ I 
h’ard tell of her speaking to a geranium that she 
found in bloom early, as if she was terrible pleased. 
She’ll likely not be all there.” 

“And how did ye come to be gossiping about a 
strange woman ye ken naething about, ye useless 
cratur?” cried Mairi. 

“Far be it from me to be relating gossip, Mairi,” 
said Pate, and turned to leave her. 

Seeing herself on the wrong tack, Mairi “put 
about,” as it were. “Who was tellin’ ye?” said she. 
“Ye were keen enough to crack wi’ me wance on a 
time, my man.” 

“That was afore ye caught me, Mairi. I’ve seldom 
opened my mouth since.” 

“Caught ye! Ye gied me neither peace nor rest, 
day nor night, till I was forced tae mairry ye, for a 
rest and naething else!” 

11 Mairi, ’ ’ said Pate, ‘ ‘ ye ’re a terrible leear! ” He 
put his great hard hand on her shoulder and looked 
at her. 

“Well, maybe I am, Pate; but tell me your news.” 

“Oh, it was Jimmie the shepherd was telling me; 
he’s very frien’ly with wan of the lady’s bleachers 1 — 
an English lass wi’ a tongue like the clappers of a 
bean mill.” 

“Gosh guide us! And what was she haverin’ 
about?” 

“She says (the shepherd telt me) that when she’s 
1 Bleacher=domestic servant. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


37 


no writing letters, yon woman’s for ever watching 
the Rock.” 

“I kent it,” said Mairi, and drew a long breath; 
“I’ve felt her eye on me time and again. I’ve burned 
scones, and thrawed the wrang hen’s neck-” 

“Ye aye burned an odd scone, woman,” said Pate. 
“I kent that when I marrit ye. It was wi’ reading 
history.” 

“It was good o’ ye no tae say a cheep about it, 
Pate; go on wi’ your news.” Mairi plainly refused 
battle. 

“It is not you the leddy is watching,” said Pate 
in a solemn voice; “it is Gavin.” 

“Will she steal the wean?” Mairi’s face flamed 
red, her lips moved for words, her hand groped in 
the air. She was afraid. 

“There’s nae thocht of stealing the boy,” said 
Pate. “The shepherd thocht she might just be a 
wanter, 1 and the bleacher says her mistress is never 
so happy as when she’s watching Gavin through the 
glass.” 

“The poor soul, Pate; maybe she was like us— 
maybe she lost a boy.” 

“She has no man seemingly.” 

“But for a’ that, Pate—I wonder if her gless 2 is 
good. I ’ll need to dress Gavin. . . . Did the lass tell 
Jimmie any mair?” 

“Aye, she had a screed o’ her mistress’s business.” 

“Was she not the clatch! 3 And what was the 
ither business?” 

“The leddy has a wee table at the side of her 
bed, with a great dollop o’ flowers on it-” 

i Wanter = woman unmarried. 

2 Gless = spyglass, telescope. 3 Clatch = trollop. 


38 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


“Is she not the genteel one now?” 

* ‘Will ye let me speak?” 

“Speak, man; am I not trying to make ye speak, 
and it’s like drawing the teeth from a cat! I might 
as weel be mairrit on a dummy-” 

“Well, on the table with the flowers there is a 
man’s likeness , 1 every day and every night.” 

“Imphm! A likeness—well, go on.” 

“That’s a’ I ken,” said Pate, and went outside. 

Mairi smiled at his back—had it not been Mairi, it 
might have seemed to be a very tender smile. 

“The very same old dour devil’s in ye yet that I 
couldna cow when I was in my teens. Ye’ll go spark¬ 
ing off, like a cat’s back, as if ye were twinty, Pate, 
my man, but I’ll manage ye.” 

The old body moved briskly from shelf to press, 
and from the press to the fire. There came a tremen¬ 
dous aroma of cooking, and a tremendous sizzling and 
sputtering and frying. The canary commenced to 
sing madly to drown this all-pervading noise. With 
her table set, Mairi went to the door. It was rain¬ 
ing and cold. Pate was at a potato-pit, his hands 
glabbery, his boots and leggings muddy. 

“Hoy, Pate!” cried Mairi from the door, and 
beckoned with a crooked finger to her man. 

Pate straightened his back, took off his cap and 
shook the rain from it, and came slowly towards her. 
When he was in the kitchen, Mairi was not visible, 
but suddenly she came from behind a press door, with 
a glass in her hand. 

“It’s caul’ nesty wark dressin’ tatties,” said she. 
“Drink this! It’ll put hert in ye!” 

Pate dried his hands and took the glass. 


i Likeness=photograph. 



GAVIN DOUGLAS 


39 


“Well, here's luck to you, Mairi; there’s times 
when you’re very pleasant.” He laughed suddenly 
and drank half of his dram. “It’s a peety you are 
so often cross.” 

Is it pleasant or pitiful to see old people coy? 
Old Mairi’s eyes fell—she was shy. 

“Oh, Pate,” she said, “I was never cross to you, 
lad. Sit doon to your supper—it’s fried ham and 
eggs.” 

Pate was filling his pipe; his boots were off, his 
grey-stockinged feet were on the hob. His wife was 
knitting with a quiet clicking of wires. 

“I was wondering,” said she, “why that woman 
is always looking at Gavin. What right has she to 
be looking at Gavin? It is not nice.” 

Pate rolled tobacco in the palm of his hand. 

“That is not what you were wondering,” said he. 
“Ye were wondering whose is the likeness on the 
wee table with the flowers on it.” 

“I was wondering that too.” 

“Well, ask,” said Pate. 

“Tell me.” 

“It is the likeness of Gavin’s father.” 

“I kent it, ye sumph,” said Mairi. “And the lady 
is Gavin’s mother. ... I’m glad she’s so near.” 

“Near or far, what odds does it make?—she’ll 
never come here.” 

“If Gavin was to take the hives, ye would see if 
she would or no!” 

“Hives,” said her husband; “willink 1 ’ll cure the 
hives. There’s nae cure for divorce.” 

“Is there no’?” said Mairi. “Take your feet off 

iWillink=a herb of medical properties (Veronica beca- 
bunga). 


/ 

40 GAVIN DOUGLAS 

that hob. I kent I could wheedle anything out 
of ye.” 

But after this Mairi watched the white house across 
the hay, watched the comings and goings of folk, 
and when the smoke went up in the mornings. And 
it was she who saw that every night, when Gavin’s 
light was put out, a light went out in the Wilderness. 

‘ 4 It is the mother of him waving good-night,” she 
told Pate and Dungannon, “the fond foolish woman.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


IN WHICH DUNGANNON VISITS THE WILDERNESS. 

For long Patrick Dungannon worked, and never left 
the isle. When Pate set sail in the skiff and sailed 
across to the village on the other side for “ messages’* 
and provisions, and with letters, Dungannon watched 
him longingly from the shore, but refused to sail 
across. 

* 1 The Good Powers know if ever I would be coming 
back, if I was wance gone on my travels. I will stop 
in this pleasant place,** said he. 

But on a morning in the late summer, Dungannon 
came from the stable and looked across the water, 
and was lost. The little punt was on the shore at 
anchor, oars and rowlocks aboard of her. Gavin was 
at his books, having bathed and capered an hour in 
the early light, and stood with his drawn bow. Pate 
Dol and Douglas were on the other side of the island 
at work on a broken dyke, and Mairi was at her 
baking. 

“There’s the roads to be cutting in the corn, the 
round av the little field,** said Patrick. “Sure, now, 
it *s me could pull over beyant and be back, and none 
av them the wiser, and no harm done at all, at all— 
just wan little bottle now to quench a year’s drout.** 
41 


42 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


He walked slowly to the shore—he stood long 
looking at the punt. He turned and commenced 
to walk back—he stood—he looked again—and then 
he waded to the little boat. Then he was rowing like 
a madman, forcing the bluff bows half under with 
his strokes, and looking, from time to time, over his 
shoulder, until he beached on the east side of the 
old stone pier, put the rowlocks below the floor¬ 
boards, and left the oars tied to the thwart. He took 
a look at the Rock, and then walked quickly to the 
little inn. 

“Sure, now,” thought he, “it is a pleasant place, 
with the shamrock growing wonderful green and 
strong in a pot on the counter. (‘That will be their 
Luck/ said he.) Queer fine pictures av racehorses 
on the walls there were, and a goat too—a billy— 
in a picture in a corner. It was pleasant to see 
the barrels, and the little spigots, and the bottles 
glittering, and all thim copper joogs up beyant, 
below the clock. Sure, now, and the drop av drink 
was fine on the tongue, and rollin’ it in the mouth, 
and it was fine to hear the strange talk about him. 
A quiet decent dram was harmin’ no one at all.” 
Then he went out and bought himself tobacco and half 
a dozen clay pipes, and a pound of cheese and two 
haddocks, and peppermints for the boy, and candles. 
“Sure, there was never a swate over the mouth av 
that boy.” He left his purchases in the boat, and 
wandered along past the coastguard station and the 
school and the church, wondering and admiring “the 
green av the lawns” before the houses, and along till 
he was come to the whitewashed house, “where the 
light did go out av an evening.” 

Dungannon stood and looked at the house. It 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


43 


was a pretty white place, and neatly kept, and a 
maid endeavouring to keep the grass down with a 
mowing machine—and a lady by her. 

“Madam,’’ said the Irishman, “it would be more 
for the likes av me to be keeping that fellow going, 
for it’s waiting for the tide I am, to go beyant to the 
Rock, where I belong/’ 

“Do you live on the Rock?” said the lady, who 
had looked a little alarmed at sight of the red freckled 
face; “tell me quickly, man?” 

“Shure, now, madam, I’m after tellin’ ye. It’s 
Patrick Dungannon is become a monk yonder for 
long.” 

“Cut the lawn, good man,” said the lady, “and 
then come to me,” and she went to a chair and sat 
down a little hurriedly. 

Dungannon kept going steadily; the sweat poured 
from him. “ ’Tis the spirit going from me,” says he, 
wiping his brow. “The devil’s own contraption this 
mower is for a man to be behind av.” 

When he finished his task, he was on fire to be 
away. Was it not a day wasted and the last drop of 
spirit sweated out of him? But a servant came and 
bade him come to a meal in the kitchen, and after 
that the lady sent for him. 

She was seated at a great desk littered with papers. 
There were flowers everywhere; great masses of 
sweat peas lay on a table; the smell of honey was in 
the room. The lady was very stately and grand, 
and her voice low and kindly. She motioned Dun¬ 
gannon to a chair, where he sat with his cap at his 
feet, and waited. 

11 There is a little boy on the Rock, Mr. Dungannon, 
is there not?” 


44 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“Little, now, lady; the greatest boy between this 
and Black Head, a joy to be seeing, and him living. 
D’ye know that boy would swim all day belike, and 
bate the goats on the rocks for leppin\ The skin of 
him does be glowing like a blown fire, and his teeth 
like the ivory. There’s a song now that will fit him, 
lady, and this is it, saving yer presence:— 

‘‘His teeth were like the ivory, and his hair was auburn brown, 
And oh! the lovely ringlets on his shoulders hanging down; 
His skin is fine as roses, an’ his eyes as blue’s the sea, 

Och, he’ll break the heart av all the girls wherever he do be.” 

The lady’s eyes were shining strangely. 

“And is he happy, the little dar—the wild little 
boy ? ’ ’ 

“Shure, now, ma’am, as for happy, has he not the 
sun to be playin’ in, and the waves o’ the sea? The 
wild birds on the hill are his friends, and at night 
the father of him telling him the old battles. Happy, 
lady; do the birds be happy now ?’ ’ 

“And his father?” 

“A dark sorrowful man, lady! There’s a powerful 
sorrow on that man, and the son is the apple av 
his eye.” 

When Dungannon left the Wilderness, he held his 
hand over his inside pocket, and even in the little 
bar with the twinkling copper jugs, and the shining 
barrels, his hand would go back to that pocket, to 
the little picture the lady had given him. 

With the dusk he launched his punt, and pulled 
back slowly to the Rock. 

And at the beach Pate met him. 

“Welcome, Royal Cherlie!” he cried; “have ye 
so much as a grain left in the bottle ? Haddies, and 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


45 


tobacco, and pipes, and cheese, and candles! Man, 
ye have the great notions! Ye’re the decent man!” 

But Dungannon was in disgrace. Mairi passed 
him, as Pate said, “breenging and flourishing, and 
cleaning terrible, about the place.” 

4 * What do ye think of the rascal that goes off in 
a boat,” she would ask the ducks—'‘the trash— 
drinking ? ’ ’ 

But Pate was kind. Silently he brought to the 
barn the black bag, and Dungannon seized it and 
ran. He made his way to the little cave, the entrance 
hidden by a bush and heather, and crawled inside 
and lighted his candle. On the rock beside him were 
crosses carved deep, where of old a saint had lain 
in days of spiritual anguish. His Irish imagination 
pictured the man, clad in the skins of animals maybe, 
naked maybe, lashing himself with cords and scourg¬ 
ing the proud flesh until the blood streamed. He 
saw the saint, in travail, carve his cross deep in the 
rock, saw him writhe in fear in that hollow place, 
peopled with devils and tempters, and with only the 
little cross to cling to. In the half-glow of the candle 
he drew out his violin, bowed his head over it, and 
played—painted in music his vision—his shame. And 
Gavin in bed heard the wild notes like threads of silver 
long drawn and quivering. Faintly, faintly they 
came, but his young ears heard, and silently he rose, 
dressed hurriedly, noiselessly, and barefooted sped 
across the grass, plashing with dew, until the elfish 
light shone on the hillside, and he climbed in beside 
the fiddler. 

“Glory, oh, glory to see you between the eyes again, 
and me in purgathory, and not fit to be holding 
my head up at all. ’ ’ 


46 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“Are you daft, Patrick, fiddling here in the night 
and everybody sleeping? Come back to your bed/’ 
said Gavin. 

“The bed is not for the like of me this night, with 
the jumping in my limbs. If the Divine Being will 
send the daylight, it’s me will be at the cutting av 
the roads in the corn, and the scythe waiting for me 
yonder in a tree. It’s the creatur here and me will 
be weeping this night for the things that do be, and 
the things av long ago. 

“Here, now,” says Patrick, diving a hand into his 
pocket and bringing out a white poke. “What is 
this but the foinest of peppermint jub-jubs! Soul 
o’ me, the joy that’s before you, child av the light, 
wid this bag o’ peppermint. To be ate,” says he, 
“yis, shure, ate—sucked and swallowed iviry wan. 
’Tis not in Dungannon to forget the child even when 
my weakness is on me, and a greater gift have I than 
peppermint. Listen, now, Gavin Douglas, dear. 

‘ ‘ There was an angel av Hivin yonder did make me 
drive a devil’s contraption for clipping grass—the 
start and the fright to a man’s nerves when the 
chuckie-stones do be pingin’ and whizzing aff the 
blades! The worst punishment in the hereafter will 
be a lawn-mower to be driving in long grass and the 
heat blistering. And the angel that set me the task 
tould me to attend her in a grand room. The like of 
that room is beyond tellin’—swate pays on a table 
like the bedding av a horse, and roses in glass pihoys, 
and a fire—d’ye mind?—av turf. 

“ ‘Mr. Dungannon,’ says she, ‘phwat is the little 
boy on the Rock? Is he happy?’ 

“ ‘Happy as the young calves on a sunny day,’ 
says I. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


47 


“ ‘And phwat does he look like/ says she, ‘and 
how do the days go with him? Does he cry ever, 
and is there some one to see about his clothes, and 
his bed, and his stockings ?’ 

“ ‘Shure, now, ma’am/ says I, ‘Mairi Voullie Vhor 
would not let the mother of him cast her shadow on 
him, lest she blot out the sun from the darling.’ 

“She does be watching you with the spy-glasses 
at the bow and arrows. ‘Oh, cruel!’ she cries, and 
in the spring when the sea is lashing in, ‘Oh, mad¬ 
ness!’ she cries; ‘can this Mairi—can she not keep 
him from the water—keep him out of the sea?’ 

“ ‘The sea is there for the lad’s pleasure, lady/ 
says I; ‘that is the thought of Mairi.’ 

“ ‘Will you guard him, the little boy—the wild 
little boy ? ’ says she. 

“ ‘Gyard him, lady; he’ll guard himself this day.’ 

“And then says she, ‘He has no mother, poor little 
boy.’ ” 

“I’m not poor,” cried Gavin, speaking for the first 
time. “I’m not a little boy—I need no women.” 

“Sorrow now, a mother is not a woman, boy; 
a mother is wan av the greater angels that we men 
never rightly onderstand. ‘And/ says the lady, 
‘Mr. Dungannon’—she puts the Mr. on me,—‘you 
will give the wild little boy this from me to look at 
sometimes; and hide it well/ said she, ‘if so be he 
will not look at it; only the little boy must see it/ 
and I promised. ‘The little boy and no other, lest 
harm come/ and I promised again for you. 

“Give me your word—a man’s word, Gavin—that 
no other will look on this, and I’ll show ye-” 

Gavin’s face reddened with anger. “No, I will 
not,” he cried. “This is like plotting in the history; 



48 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


this is not clean. Tell my father,” said he in a blaze 
of rage, for he was devoured with curiosity, and his 
training warred with his inclination, and defeated it. 

“Shure, now, and was not that the foine tale I 
was making, and ye spoiled it entirely with your 
rampaging, for the sorrow the bit av it was true, 
now, except the lawn-mower that I showed for a 
divershin, till such times as the tide would be serving. 
Scud along wid ye, for the light will be coming soon, 
and then it’s Patrick for the scythe,” and quietly 
they made for the house. 

But in his room above the stable Patrick Dun¬ 
gannon took a little silver frame from his pocket, 
and looked at the face smiling within. Below him a 
mare screamed and flung at her neighbour, rats 
squeaked somewhere, there was the rattling of horse 
chains. Listening without thinking at all of these 
things, Dungannon looked at the face. 

“I knowed you were the mother of him, even when 
I had drink taken, but how you knowed he would 
not have the gift bates me. But, lady,” said he, 
cocking his head to one side, “thrust Dungannon.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


GAVIN BUILDS THE LOOK-OUT. 

I think that the cave-man phase is common to every 
boy in the country. Why else does one find huts 
built of stones and clods in hidden places, in the 
bend of a stream, or in the heart of a wood, or under 
a cliff? You will see that the situation of these huts 
is cunningly considered, having due regard for defence 
and attack. It may be that Dungannon’s habit of 
crawling into the little cave, and by the dim light 
of a candle, sitting a-playing on his violin, and letting 
his mind wander away and away, back into the mist 
of time—it may be that that first roused Gavin to 
build the Look-out—that and the story of the blind 
woman of Lagavile. Carefully, cunningly as an 
Indian, he set about his task, when he was a well- 
grown powerful boy of fifteen years. All. to the 
Firth side of the Rock he traversed, searching for the 
place that he had in the eye of his mind. There 
must he a rock for the hack wall of his hidden retreat; 
there must be danger in approaching for the unwary; 
the place must be easy of concealment. Such a place 
he found at last, near a glissade of flat stones ( like an 
arrested avalanche)—stones that whiles go rattling 
and roaring down like a river, with metallic splinter- 
49 


50 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


ing, and the smoky smell of powder; stones that the 
goats trod daintily, and that a boy might skip across, 
scarcely resting his weight, but leaping with half¬ 
fearful joyous cries, and listening to the gathering 
rattle behind each step, as the stones started to slither. 
Below was sheer, almost sheer, slope, with heather 
growing long and straggling, having been burned but 
seldom. But here the bare ribs of the Rock showed 
through the scant soil in a perpendicular slab, and at 
the base of it was a flat place, covered with a green 
plant like the lily-of-the-valley, and with little white 
flowers hardly to be distinguished from white heather 
from a little distance. Here was the home of a white 
goat, a spot sacred to the leader, and here Gavin 
stood and surveyed. On his right, away down the 
Firth, an Irish schooner was abreast of the Craig; 
below him a little coaster plunged her nose into the 
swe ll—it was as though he could fling a stone on to 
her decks. Here he could see all the great liners 
coming and going on their sea trafficking—here was 
the place. In the winter, the rain would flood it— 
that was the first thing to be thought of, and to think 
with Gavin was to act. With a pick and a spade 
taken from the steading in the early morning, when he 
alone was abroad, he started the building. . Sore, sore 
was the labour, for mostly hard rock met the pick, 
but bit by bit he finished the task. 

Often from the little path far below he surveyed 
his work, and altered it until he was satisfied that 
none should detect it. From the glissade of stones 
he builded his side walls, for the stones were flat and 
easily handled. It was the best part of a year's work 
before he had the floor paved with flat stones, and 
a fireplace built, with a chimney of stone and clay. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


51 


A spring that trickled through his wall he led in a 
little gutter of stone into an old iron feeding-trough 
that had lain in the stackyard for years, and long he 
worked before the overflow was drained away below 
the floor, by a corner. He had built a little stone 
platform for the trough, and round this he planted 
hart’s-tongues, and droll little shy ferns that loved 
damp dark crannies, and always there was a little 
tinkling of water, like the laughter of fairies. His 
walls completed, he digged holes and erected wooden 
uprights taken from the shore, toiling “round about” 
with these great beams that had drifted to the shore 
of the Rock from the shipyard on the mainland. 

For a while Gavin would leap down into the hut, 
but afterwards he made a ladder and set it below 
the doorway, which was in the roof. 

Here, then, was his stronghold made, and no one 
knowing, yet seldom did he approach it by the same 
path lest he make a track, that his father, or his uncle, 
or the men, might wonder at. Seldom, indeed, did 
he even light the fire, but kept dry peat lying there, 
and on days when he could be away, he built himself 
a couch, or rather a rude bench, and a table. He 
covered his window-place with canvas, leaving only 
a little space for light to his ferns; and from the path 
the canvas looked like grey rock, and no one would 
ever think of climbing among loose stones to look 
closer. 

Indeed, sometimes sitting in his Look-out, watching 
great black-backed gulls swoop down with a “whoo- 
ing” sound of wings to join their fellows in the sea 
below, he would hear the phit and snort of goats at 
their grazing, climbing about his nest, all unconscious, 
seemingly, of his presence. 


52 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Here at peace Gavin lived his dreams. Sometimes, 
watching the ships sailing below him, he was a cun¬ 
ning pirate, waiting and watching till the treasure¬ 
laden galleons hove in view, and his swarthy crew 
would be around him, waiting his word to go on 
board his hooker and give battle. 

Whiles he was a wrecker, living again all the tales 
of shipwreck that Dungannon had told him, showing 
his fatal light to draw stout ships off their course, 
and carrying rich booty to store in his secret strong¬ 
hold, by the ruddy light of blazing torches. 

Often this was Castle Dangerous (in sooth it was), 
and he was Douglas creeping stealthily in the dusk to 
the attack. Sometimes lying on the rude bench, he 
was the Bruce watching the spider spinning her web 
from beam to beam. All the tremendous joys of boy¬ 
hood—a lonely boyhood in that he had no companions 
and made his own pageants—were in this place. 
Mairi Voullie Vhor missed eggs, and cheese, and bread, 
and made mystic signs old as the hills, and the wee 
folk that dwell therein. Cups and plates, and knives 
and forks, vanished mysteriously in the night, and 
(most horrible of all), the kitchen bellows were not. 

Gavin was slowly furnishing the Look-out; a dressed 
sheepskin rug went next, and a tartan train-rug and 
a little pan. 

So bitterly did Mairi lament the loss of her skillet 
that Gavin took it back, and put it into the corn-kist, 
where Pate found it, and his wife thereupon blamed 
him for everything. 

“Ye jeckdaw, Pate Dol,” she would cry, “bring 
me back my good spoons! ’ 9 

In the Look-out Gavin made a great bow, and hung 
it on the wall with a belt and arrows. He made a 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


53 


great Viking head-dress, polishing for days at the 
horns of a slaughtered bull that Pate Dol got for him, 
and fitting them to an iron band. This helmet also 
he hung on the wall, and a belt and short sword that 
Campbell had provided. All his treasures, even 
Katherine, were taken away and stored carefully in 
the Look-out, and on Sundays after the morning 
prayers he would be away most of the day. The boy 
was in love with his own handiwork. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MAIRI VOULLIE VHOR ON HISTORY. 

As like as not, with Gavin in bed, his guardians would 
draw a little table closer to the fire and turn the lamp 
down, while the flickering and blinking of the burning 
wood cast grotesque lights and shadows, like phan¬ 
toms dancing. There in silence they would sit until 
the doctor touched the lawyer with his foot and 
nodded at the decanter. Silently and solemnly 
Douglas would pour drinks, and then both men would 
sit back in silence until the lawyer performed the 
same mysterious kick and side look, and at that the 
doctor would operate. 

On such an occasion, after the second glass, Douglas 
spoke. 

“I will put him into the army, Ludovic Campbell. ,, 

“Ye will give him a spell at a Scots University, 
James, and maybe a while in France—man, ye learned 
things there—bad useful things. I wish I were young 
again. Sodgering is a fine life if ye have the gift of 
it, and at least he would not be a slave. In medicine 
a man is the slave of a bell. A doctor hasn’t even 
the time to be ill. The time will come—I can see 
it coming—when a doctor will travel the roads in a 
kert, like the butchers and bakers. ‘Any weans to 
54 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


55 


tak’ hame? Any bruises to mend, any coughs to 
cure?’ Pamper up the folk, till it pays them to be 
ill, and what will ye find ? Truculence and arrogance 
on the top of the educated ignorance of the lave, 
and the dacent folk ashamed. That’s what comes o’ 
letting lawyers fouter with medicine.” 

‘ ‘Aye, James, the lawyers will put the doctors in 
a cart, wi’ a wheen halflin politicians to help hoist 
them in.” 

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do the night—we’ll ring 
for Mairi and ask her opinion.” 

Both men rose when the old lady entered, her 
knitting with her, and a black kitten frolicking with 
her wool. 

“Sit down, Mairi,” said the doctor, “and I’ll mix 
ye a little whisky-and-water, and that will do your 
cough a heap of good.” 

“Screw up the lamp till I see what I’m getting,” 
said Mairi. 

“We have been thinking of what to do with Gavin,” 
said Douglas, turning the wick higher. “What would 
be the best for him—the law, or the doctoring, or the 
army, now?” 

“The law!” said Mairi, and her voice became 
vehement with scorn. “Is it the la’? I would 
never make him a lawyer —1 would not show a lawyer 
a bird's nest! As for doctoring, seeing folk at their 
poorest—and life’s a sair trauchle at the best,—Gavin 
would not stand that. He would take to drink. 

“As for sodgerin’, he would make a bonny sodger 
—ay, or sailor either; but na, na, put away from ye 
the gallant sight of him in a rid coat, and make a 
minister o’ him.” 

Campbell started. “A minister! If ye want to 


56 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


spoil a man make him a minister! What good is a 
minister—a minister!” 

“It’s th’ old Scots notion, Ludovic,” cried Douglas, 
but Mairi stopped him. 

“Ay, and it’s Scotland I’m thinking o’, gentle¬ 
men,” she said. “What kind of Scotland have we 
now—steamers tearin’ about Sunday and Seterday 
alike, golf, and kick-ba’, and theatres, halls o’ music, 
and magic lanterns day and night—the churches 
empty, and the jiles fu\ There’s bonny Scotland for 
ye! Weans reading trash in newspapers would dirty 
fish to row them in. Drink was bad and weemen was 
bad, but this slavering after pleasure is worse than 
baith—it’s dementing a nation, it’s making men like 
weemen, and weemen like hameless spirits, without 
peace or rest. There’s them that blame the weemen, 
but I warrant I blame the men. The men are not 
strong enough to keep the weemen in order; they’re 
feart if a lass greets. It’s a daft kindness to give in to 
a woman too much; it goes to her heid and unsettles 
her.” 

“Aye, but days are changed and women with 
them,” said Ludovic. 

“Don’t tell me that weemen have changed; weemen 
havena changed since Eve was in the gairden, when 
she his the right man. Was Black Agnes that ye 
talk aboot—was she not a managin’ twa-handed lass 
that defied an army, and dusted the walls o’ Dunbar 
Castle, when the cannon ba’s stotted off it?—there 
was spirit for ye and fire, and d’ye ken why she did 
it? Because her man would kiss her when he cam’ 
back and ca’ her a brave lass. That’s what she was 
looking for—that’s what they’re a’ looking for—the 
right man to praise them.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


57 


“Mary Queen o’ Scots had men a-plenty, Mairi,” 
said Douglas, his eyes beginning to twinkle, “and 
she made a bonny business o’ it.” 

“And Queen Elizabeth had nane, and was a bril¬ 
liant success, Mairi,” cried the doctor. 

“Poor bonny Mary, it was the want o’ a man 
ruined her, for if a ’ her braw wooers had been rolled 
into wan, they would not have made the douce, quiet, 
strong lad she was needing—a strong lad that could 
skelp her, or pet her, as he pleased; and laugh at her, 
—wi’ enough o’ the deil in him to gar her feel fine and 
frightened—to keep the nobles in their biss wi’ a 
glower from his e’e, and his hand at his belt, as her 
faither would ’a done, and no ashamed to tak’ his 
cap off to his Maker. Aye, the kind o’ man a woman 
wearies for to come hame; the pity of it is they’re 
maistly away—with other weemen. And as for that 
Elizabeth woman, I never could thole her a’ my 
days, and I do not believe she was half as good as 
she let on. She has a sly face, yon one. Yon lady 
was hiding something.” 

“Likely it would be a minister,” says the doctor 
quietly. 

“Aye, but she would not have hidden Jone Knox—- 
there was a man she would have feared. She didna 
daunton the Bauld Buccleuch nane, and Jone Knox 
would have garred her sniff brimstane. If Mary had 
ta’en Jone Knox, beard and all, there would not have 
been a heided woman in Fotheringay. ” 

“It’s another John Knox you think Scotland needs 
then?” 

“Aye, that, if Gavin would be that! A man that 
grown men would respect and reverence, that men 
grown old in wickedness could not sneer down or 


58 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


laugh away. A man that would stand before the 
people and point the way; a man that would bring 
back the fear o’ God to the nation; a man scorning 
money, and finery, and kerriges, and fearing only the 
face of his Maker.” 

“Bravo, Main,” cried the doctor; “it’s the like of 
you that should be in the College.” 

“Here are the young lads frae the collidge,” cried 
the old woman, “full o’ the love of the Divine Being, 
with His name on their lips continually! and the fine 
clever things they are saying in their minds, quibbling 
with the Bible, believing here and doubting there 
the truth that’s in it—for that’s the truth. If Gavin 
could stand with richeous anger in his heart, nae 
pity—Scots folk don’t want pity,—man, but they 
thrived on brimstone and the burning lake-” 

“D’ye think folk would stand that now?” said 
Douglas. ‘ ‘ It was that talk that drowned the laughter 
of Scotland. Look at the difference between Scotland 
and Ireland.” 

“Aye, look—Ireland will laugh herself to hell, and 
then greet because she laughed, and it was the Forbes 
M’Kenzie Aot that quietened Scotland; but, gentle¬ 
men, the folk would be glad o’ a leader this day. 
The devil will aye fight, but a real leader would cow 
him, and there would be a different race o’ bairns 
growing up. Let folk be as wild as they like through 
the week, but the Sundays are a scandal in Scotland, 
there’s nae discipline, the weans are ruling the 
homes, and nane daur lift a hand. Gavin has the 
gift. He has the fire of the eye, and the leaping 
words of flame. He can recite, and it would terrify 
ye. Man, I’m hankering to hear him in a pulpit 
preaching the Word, and putting up a prayer. There 



GAVIN DOUGLAS 


59 


are men lost. I ’ve heard Pate Dol in his young days 
putting up a prayer that would move the heart of a 
stane, hut he hadna the Letin roots, and I took him 
wanting them.” 

4 ‘Well, we’ll make Gavin a minister,” said the 
doctor, “and he’ll finish a bishop.” 

“Whatna bishop—the English Church, wi’ its 
curates in the newspapers. I would rather see him 
digging drains,” cried Mairi. 

“It’s a fine Church,” said Douglas; “Cromwell 
was of the English Church. ’ ’ 

“Yon bleck, that kilt kings”—grudgingly,—“a 
fine stern man he was bound to be, if all they say is 
true, but he was a Puritan, as well ye ken. It’s a 
Cromwell in the kirk that Scotland needs. Make ye 
Gavin that, and the Lord will reward ye.” 

“I’m thinking Gavin would have something to 
say,” said Douglas, “but I think, Mairi, you are 
right in some ways. We are all at sixes and sevens; 
politics in the pulpit and war in the homes; pleasures 
that bring no joy, and the clergy too broadminded 
for the most part—not of experience, hut of 
expediency.” 

“Broadminded! What is it, this broadminded- 
ness—a snare, the open gate to the Pleasant road, 
the weel-keepit road that leads to the Bog of Doubt; 
there’s nae broad road tae the mountain-top where 
the air is clean. Na, na, it’s climb and wrastle, loup 
boulders and skirt cliffs, till the end o’ the journey. 
But on the broad road it’s slither and slide, lie awhile 
on the roadside and smile to the passengers, drifting 
and slithering downhill. There were stout men of old 
that had weemen for a pastime, as I should say it, and 
bauld men that loved good horse, and delighted in 


60 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


strong drink—these were kind o’ he failings—a 
body could understand them, aye, and dancing as 
weel, real dancing—wae's me, what is a dance noo 
but the start of a fine Ladida? Aye, laugh, but if 
that's not true there is something wrong in the 
manheid o’ Scotland, there's a saftness crept intae 
the old oak. It's bad enough to sin, but lamentable 
no' to be able." 

‘ 1 Come back,'' cried Douglas , 11 come back to Gavin.'' 

“Ye’ve reared the lad wrang, gentlemen. Whitna 
women does he ken but bygone queens and the like 
o' that, an' I can mind of a batch of them in Tome 1 
of the History, and maistly bad, aither mairrit or 
widowed, and the historians—wrinkled auld carles 
that should hae kent better—gloating ower their 
pranks as if it was just something oot o’ the ordinar', 
and not a caper that’s as common as dirt. And for 
menfolk he has kings and knights, as wild a deckin' 
as any woman would want to see, wi’ their- fights 
and follies in two or three shires. Ye’ll see! I'm 
auld, but I ken. Gavin will loup the dyke like his 
forebears. I’m sair feart, bless him, and that would 
mak' a grand bizz in a kirk choir. 

“Aye, laugh, doctor; there are some acts better 
said with modesty." 

“But, Mairi, women are different nowadays—as 
good as men." 

“They were aye that!” says Mairi. “Nae woman 
ever denied that, but she never let on.” 

“Good comrades, clean-minded," continued the 
doctor. 

“Gosh guide me," cried the old woman, “I never 
thocht there was anything no' clean in catching a 
bonny man." 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


61 


“In a word, Mairi, women are emancipated.’’ 

“Did ever, doctor! Weel, I kent there was some¬ 
thing wrang wi ’ them. It sounds gey bad, and a man 
in the middle of it, as usual.” 

“So it would seem that the Kirk is not for Gavin,” 
said Douglas. “Well, I’m glad of it. A man with¬ 
out a call from the Almighty is little use in a pulpit.” 

“Time will tell, and the frost will try the tatties, 
gentlemen. There never was a kinder lad than Gavin. 
Here he is on this Rock year in, year out, with folk 
not of his years, and maistly dull as ditch-water, 
and never a girn from him. There he’ll swim like 
a pelach, 1 or bend a bow as thick as a broom-shaft; 
sail in the skiff when the spindrift is white in the loch, 
and a’ the time ta’en on with archers and vikings, 
wi’ horns on their heids, proging into ither folks’ 
business, and lifting anything not too het or too 
heavy. To see the lad work wi’ a spade or a graip 
gars me laugh. It’s like a table-fork in his hands, 
and him singing at the work, and Pate Dol and that 
Dungannon body potterin’ beside him. He’s drained 
and he’s wrought till the Rock is changed, and him a 
boy just, and thrang at his sword-play, and single¬ 
stick, when a strong man would lie doon. 1 ’m gieing 
him sulphur and treacle every morning to keep him 
weak, and he’ll tak’ it like a lamb; and you’re gien’ 
him dreams oot o’ aul’ books, and hard work, and 
harder play, and it’s likely the first lass he sees will 
spoil the ploy.” 

“Ah,” said Cambell, “well, now, we’ll make him 
a knight, and make women creatures of divine clay, 
to be worshipped from afar—the farther the better. 
He will wait at the table of King Arthur of Camelon, 

i Porpoise. 


62 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


with Sir Lancelot of the Lake and divers other 
knights. The Holy Grail and the Crusaders’ Cross, 
the making of his armour, and the riding in the 
desert with the Earl of Huntington—we’ll wrap 
him up in a new flame, and, Mairi, your bogies will 
be laid to rest, your ladies will not trouble him. ’ ’ 

‘‘Man, ye mak’ me laugh—weemen trouble him? 
Na, na, but I’ll warrant he’ll trouble them.” 

So it was that Gavin fashioned his spear and beat 
out his lance-head, while Campbell gave cunning 
advice. The squire must be master of his horse, 
must groom and comb, must embellish his harness, 
must be able to ride full gallop at a little peg in the 
ground, and bear it aloft on his lance-head. Many 
times did Gavin fly from horseback and measure his 
length on the turf, while his horse bounded free, but 
bit by bit the art came. The sure eye and the per¬ 
fectly controlled muscles were his. He had found 
his seat long syne, having never used a saddle, and 
you would hear his wild shout as he bore the peg 
aloft. Dungannon was subtle with horses. 

“Me gran’father was a sergeant in the Inniskilling 
Dragoons, and he would be giving his horse a taste 
of the powder—saltpetre—for the gloss on the 
skin. ’ ’ 

Gavin delighted in his horse, oiling hoofs, combing 
and bedecking the .mane, constructing droll knots in 
the long tail, and garnishing these with polished orna¬ 
ments. Cunningly, cunningly, the doctor led the way 
from history to romance, to high emprise, to valiant 
deeds. Prints and pictures appeared, gleaming ar¬ 
mour, and goffered reins, and wonderful housing for 
horse. Sir David Lindsay charged on London Bridge, 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


63 


Cceur de Lion thundered at the walls of Jerusalem, 
while the broom shone in his helm like fire celestial. 
All of the old heroes were not forgotten, but given 
new roles. Fingal and Coulin hunted and warred, 
Bruce and Douglas were but new names. The 
game was always there—life, and song, and laughter, 
and horses, and death a friend at the end of 
all. 

Thus at the anvil you would hear the clank of the 
hammer and see the flying of sparks. Heavens! 
what a task for a young hero to beat out his own 
armour, beat it out from worn horse-shoes, heated 
and reheated; from old rusty iron shods of long- 
forgotten wheels. Days of studying at pictures, striv¬ 
ings after knowledge. Heartrending failures, pitiful 
successes, but now and then, something evolved, that 
lying by the anvil caused a thrill—something that 
might have covered a gallant breast, something that 
might have taken a stern dint. 

In the Look-out Gavin would sit thinking some way 
of jointing, and hinging, and lacing, filing and polish¬ 
ing the while at his shield, the first success. For 
days, then, never did the hammer call him. After 
his books, the farm-work was toward—there were the 
plough stilts, the broken fence, the seed-time, and 
the harvest. But always, always away down, his 
brain was thinking of some means of evolving boots 
of iron, and gauntlets. 

Such a suit of mail was never seen since Tubal 
Cain fashioned the first spear-head. Some pieces 
were light, some ponderous, but the armour was 
evolved. It worked—it more than worked,—it worked 
loose, its hinges broke. Pate Dol was in raptures. 
Gavin was doubtful. Douglas and Campbell told of 


64 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


heroes who leapt to horse in full war gear. Gavin 
essayed that feat. 

“By my soul,” said Dungannon, “the haste was 
powerful moved wid the sight av the child like an 
ironclad, and clankin’ like a smiddy. I held on to 
his head, and gave the boy the reins. Soul o’ me, he 
can lep, wid all that metal on him, but nothing to 
the lep av the black horse when Gavin landed on him. 
He bounded like a billy. They took the fence there 
like the noise av a train dishaster I was in wance-’ ’ 

That night came Mairi to the room where Gavin 
slept: bruised, battered, and triumphant he lay, and 
the old woman massaged and rubbed him with hen’s 
grease. Gavin’s laugh would go booming through 
the house at her talk. 

“Ye might as weel loup aboot in the roasting jeck, 
with the griddle for a targe, black and blue and 
bliddin’ like a sheep. Ye’ll let me put a het brick 
to your feet—it draws the inflammation.” 

For long Gavin exercised himself in all knightly 
pranks; the clatter of his armour lessened, and the 
fear of the horse subsided, and then Campbell sprang 
the final test, and little did he know how final. Gavin 
was to watch his armour on the Saints Stone all 
night, from dark to sunrise. The date was fixed, 
the armour was furbished, when coming forth one 
morning to bathe, there was a red cloth on the 
ground and on it, glinting and glittering, lay a suit 
of chain-mail, a great gleaming helmet with a 
flowing plume of horse-hair, a straight Crusader’s 
sword and burnished shield. That day Mairi walked 
after the hero—at a little distance. His plume waved 
in the breeze. 

“Oh, my boy, my boy, ye are just a fallen angel. 



GAVIN DOUGLAS 


65 


I wonder who'll mairry ye? God scatters men droll; 
it will likely be some wee bit shilpet creature, wi' a 
turned-up nose." 

But at night the doctor looked at Douglas. 

“I wonder," said he, 1 ‘where that armour came 
from. It would cost a pretty penny.' ’ 

“I knew this morning," said Douglas. “Ludovic, 
that's Janet Erskine—Janet, the mother of Gavin. 
She is not far away." 


CHAPTER IX. 

HOW IRENE LANDED ON THE ROCK. 

And at the time when Gavin was all engrossed in 
the making of his armour, studying old prints of 
knights and Crusaders, Irene Savage returned from 
the seminary for young ladies to her father ’s home in 
New York. The angular little girl was grown into 
a gracious young woman, with a fine notion of her 
own importance, as chatelaine in her father’s home. 
Warm-hearted and impulsive, having many friends, 
there was yet a flightiness, as it were, in her, so that 
she never remained constant to any one thing for 
long. To her, music was delightful—she had dreams 
of being a great violinist in some hazy future,—yet 
the drudgery of scales and exercises disgusted her; 
she left them to play by ear, smiling away the gruff¬ 
ness and anger of her German teacher. Often she 
would light candles in her music-room and stand 
before a long mirror enraptured at her own beauty, 
her white gleaming arms, her dark hair, and the 
heavy black polished furniture reflecting the candle¬ 
light, the rich colour of her violin, the dark flush on 
her cheek. All her life there were people to do things 
for her. Since her cradle days Prim Sheppard had 
watched over her; her food had been specially 
66 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


67 


prepared for her, under Miss Sheppard’s own eyes; 
the wind was not allowed to blow roughly on her; 
a scratch of her hand was a tragedy; a childish ail¬ 
ment spread a stillness over the great house. Even 
John Savage, boisterous and merry, was afraid to 
romp with this little girl; also he was very often 
absent from home, so that until Irene left for school 
she was spoiled, killed with kindness, a kindness that 
expected no thanks, and received none. In school 
she naturally occupied a like position: there were 
people ready to serve her as at her home; other 
girls willingly paid her deference, for she was kind 
and thoughtful, yet could be a little fury on occa¬ 
sion, as when a mistress dared to make fun of her. 
She could not bear to be laughed at. There was no 
littleness about her; she was not mean or jealous of 
another’s success. Generous to a fault and truthful, 
she had no knowledge of fear. This may have been 
her misfortune—that she did things too easily, was 
impatient of sustained effort; yet she was loved for 
herself—her low laughter would set a roomful of girls 
a-laughing. She was a leader in every college ac¬ 
tivity, a fearless rider, and tireless at games. 

Her father’s friends treated Irene with an old- 
world deference: she was such a dignified, calm little 
hostess, anxious, indeed, that everything should be cor¬ 
rect, but showing no anxiety, and Prim Sheppard was 
always there to tell her how excellently well she had 
played hostess. There came, of course, many young 
men, brothers of her school friends, sons of her father’s 
friends, and these kept her on the accustomed pedestal, 
that had not yet become tiresome. It was a pleasure 
for young men to do anything for Miss Savage, a 
pleasure to wait in rain, or wind, if Miss Savage so 


68 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


desired it—not that she delighted in wielding her 

sceptre of power in this fashion, hut still- These 

exceedingly well-groomed young men, who looked so 
strong and handsome, with straight black hair and 
brown faces, these young men of old families were 
already bowing the knee before her throne. And 
yet, except that they were fine companions across 
country, when the sap was beginning to move in 
the trees, when a new life seemed to have entered 
the woods, when birds sang, these young men were 
seldom in the mind of Irene. They were to her just 
so many kind folks who wished to do her pleasure. 
It was perhaps natural that her tones could be, and 
were, a little imperious, that she could be, and was, 
a little haughty. These were surely little faults in 
so excellent a young lady as Irene Savage. 

To do her justice, Prim Sheppard tried hard to erad¬ 
icate these failings, pleaded hard that Irene should 
treat her male friends with a little more gentleness; 
but Irene could be very much the grande dame on 
such occasions, until poor Miss Sheppard, looking 
into the fearless smiling eyes of her young mistress, 
felt that her great hope, the secret love that she 
had cherished for years, was plain as print, and that 
what the burly father had never seen, the daughter 
knew, and ridiculed with a smile. 

“Why should I think of marriage, Prim, when I 
am but newly out? I will wait for years and years 
with my father. You would not have me leave my 
father to strangers,” and Irene would smile, and Miss 
Sheppard find some ladylike task where she could 
be alone. 

Irene’s first dance was a triumph. Elderly matrons 



GAYIN DOUGLAS 


69 


with handsome sons were motherly to her. Elderly 
beaux paid her extravagant compliments; young men 
were strangely shy and deferential, young ladies too 
affable. Irene took all such homage as her due. 

On her return home on that night, she had come 
to her father in his study and stood before his great 
chair, adorably flushed, and yet a little wearied. She 
unfastened the rope of pearls at her throat and laid 
them down carelessly. 

“And,” said she, smiling, “you promised to tell 
me a story.” She pulled a cushion to his feet and 
sat down in the firelight waiting. 

Savage put his hand on his daughter’s hair. “And 
so I will, ’ ’ said he, smiling, “ so I will, Indian Famine. ’ ’ 

“Once upon a time there was a man who had a 
little girl, and the man loved the little girl very much 
because she was all that was left for him to love.” 

“Wait a minute,” said Irene, turning round and 
looking up. “What was the little girl’s name?” 

“Her name was Indian Famine.” 

“That’s all right,” said the girl. 

“And,” continued Savage, “the man was in a 
great town in England, and his little girl with him, 
and he wondered what he would buy for her, so that 
she would always know that her father loved her, 
and he bought her a great rope of pearls, that had a 
deal of not very nice history attached to them, 
especially to seven that were greater by far, in 
size and lustre, than the others. These seven were 
the most beautiful of all, but the little girl wanted 
a great big doll, for she didn’t care anything about 
pearls. And the man I am telling you of had 
the seven pearls taken from the necklace and re¬ 
strung, and put them into a little case, and hid 


70 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


them inside the great big doll. The girl knew nothing 
about it, for this was to be a great surprise to her 
some day; and every day she would be playing with 
her doll, and every night she would sleep with it, until 
the man went away to a big town in the North, where 
men build great ships, and set sail from that town 
for his home in New York.” 

Irene sat up. “And I—I threw the doll over¬ 
board/’ she cried. “Oh, father! And the seven 
pearls inside of her.” 

“That is so,” said Savage; “these pearls here that 
you wore to-night were the others; the seven big 
ones went back to the sea, to look for their oysters, 
at the back of an island called the Rock.” 

“But maybe the doll would float to the shore,” 
said Irene. 

“I think the propellers got her,” said her father. 
“I looked—the shore wasn’t very far away either.” 

Irene sat silent for a long time, gazing into the fire. 

“When will you go to Europe again?” said she 
at last. “For a pleasure cruise, I mean.” 

“Oh, sometime, Irene; I am getting to like being 
at home.” 

“Well,” said Irene, rising to her feet, “we’ll go 
and look for that doll when we go. Maybe a fisher¬ 
man’s little girl would find it. I’ll take a little tent 
with me and I ’ll look, and that will be a great adven¬ 
ture. Better than dancing,” laughed Irene; “like 
Treasure Island, only safer. 

And so it came about that Irene had her way; be¬ 
cause that always whatever she wished for had hap¬ 
pened, so it was that her father’s steam yacht bade 
farewell to the statue of Liberty, and sailed eastward. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


71 


Savage had business to do, of course, but Irene’s 
whim was the power that drove the noiseless turbines. 
Irene’s whim had provided the little tent, with all 
the appliances that townsfolk think are required; 
the little useless folding-chair, that folded always 
at the wrong time; the little bed that let down 
in sections, and was dangerous for strangers to 
sit on; the little washstand with its canvas basin, 
not unlike a bag for straining jelly. Irene had the 
greatest delight in all of these, but Miss Sheppard, 
looking on, was if anything more prim than ever. 

After two months on the English coast, the White 
Lady sailed north and dropped anchor in the bay, 
a little way from Lewis’s Port, and in the after¬ 
noon Irene had her tent erected on the Rock and 
commenced her search. But there were miles of 
rocks, with holes and crannies also, and eerie birds 
splashing. Her little dinghy was drawn up on the 
beach. She sat long wondering whether or no to 
row back, and watched the lights come out in little 
white houses across the bay, saw the riding light 
of the yacht, and the lights from the open port¬ 
holes. She longed to be beside her father in the 
well-lit saloon. To search first, and then to meet 
some old man who would tell her that a wonderful 
doll had floated to the shore, years and years ago, 
had been her thought. But now with the shadows 
falling, a kind of dimness seemed to settle on her 
very mind. She felt alone, and vexed for something 
she knew not. The waves seemed great mysterious 
forces that were conscious of her presence, the great 
rocks were menacing, the hill gloomed above her. 
She had come back hurriedly to her tent, after hours 
of hard scrambling, for one could not call it walk- 


72 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


ing, had set about making tea, and had known even 
then, in the daylight, that to spend the night here 
would be dreadful, with the loneliness and stillness 
like a heavy hand pressing. For the first time in her 
life Irene knew fear. It had been childish, this futile 
dream. In the morning she would row back to the 
yacht and forget it. She could hear the gramophone 
playing, and wished she had taken Prim Sheppard 
that she might have felt less alone. She did not 
wish to undress; she felt afraid of the open tent 
flap, that seemed to be an open door into the dark. 
It was worse than darkness, this dim light that made 
ordinary objects grotesque and fearsome, but she 
was more afraid to shut herself in. Her lantern at 
least made the darkness visible, yet she waited for 
things to come into the circle of light; she felt and 
was glad that she had taken a little gun from her 
father’s room. It was loaded, and slipping it into 
her pocket, Irene left the tent. The night was still, 
and a terrible loneliness seized her. She fought it, 
walking up and down, up and down, afraid to rest 
lest some one should come on her in her sleep. 

“Is this pitiful frightened thing the real me?” 
she whispered. “Is this the only time I have 
been tested? She resolved to fight this fear, her 
lips tight, her heart beating. Always she felt that 
some one was near her. Up and down, up and down 
she marched, refusing to look behind her, tight 
drawn with fear, afraid of the very noise that her 
shoes made, lest it drown some other stealthy sound. 
There was a white farmhouse on the island. 
Surely she would waken some one there, and 
with that thought she started to walk towards 
it, having blown out her light. There was a little 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


73 


path, rocks became more clearly defined, the moon 
was risen. Surely the night was almost past. Her 
pulse became quieter, her heart ceased to thud. She 
felt less the sport of unreasoning fear; to-morrow: 
her father would laugh at all this. She looked 
round her, forcing herself to be normal for her very 
pride’s sake. Suddenly, towering up from a rock, 
between her and the sky, she saw an enormous 
figure, like a statue. Her heart beat in her throat; 
for her there was no turning back to her tent, she 
must go onwards. Afraid to breathe, she crept 
stealthily on, never lifting her eyes from the men¬ 
acing figure. There seemed a light to play around 
it, as on burnished silver, like something not of this 
world. With that came terror. Against her will she 
cried out, and ran wild-eyed and unseeing. Her foot 
caught, and she fell; the stars seemed to leap in the. 
heavens; she remembered no more. 


CHAPTER X. 


GAVIN WATCHES HIS ARMOUR. 

Away and away back, when the graves were young 
in Iona, there lived a saint on the Rock, Molaise men 
called him. He dwelt in a cave where a little clear 
stream trickles to the sea. Red sandstone was his 
roof, and his resting-place a cold slab. Above his 
doorway he carved a deep cross which endureth. 
Set in front of his dwelling is a great stone, the top 
of which is flat like a table. There are steps in the 
stone, leading upwards, so worn now with time and 
weather that nature might have left them there. 
The little brook trickles by many boulders set curi¬ 
ously. On these sat scholars and listened, gazing at 
the great gaunt man standing on the flat stone. The 
wide-sweeping swing of his arm was his diocese, the 
hills were his vineyard. Wild, and leaping like flame 
were his words. Little children were brought to him, 
and he baptized them, as John in the desert baptized, 
with the water from the brook. I think that in his 
agony he cowered in that other little cave, on bleeding 
knees, crying on his God for aid, when he saw across 
the bay the smoke of ruin, and foray, rise in menace; 
when the children he had once blessed, stabbed and 
slew, and Argyllshire raiders went roaring to the sea, 
74 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


75 


singing the songs of blood madness; when driven cat¬ 
tle bellowed, and the face of God was hidden from the 
West. Something of this was in the night wind, when 
Dungannon played. There are men wise in letters, 
and in the hearts of men, who hold that Molaise gave 
his name to the Rock, the isle of Molios—Illmolas,— 
and somehow, in the droll way of words, the little vil¬ 
lage (that for the most part snuggled in the birch- 
trees at the foot of the Urie) was called of men Lam- 
lash. But sure as I am that the peace of the saint 
still rests on the Rock, making all days feel like a 
Sabbath to the thoughtful, still it runs in my mind 
that the bay brought the name—the bay that is calm 
and sheltered with any wind, the safe anchorage, the 
calm water. I can see the little skiffs running before 
a southerly gale. I can hear the helmsmen cry in 
the night, in the smother of driving spindrift, “Loch 
an eilan, lum luish”—the bay of the island, the 
calm water. What boots it ? 

On the flat stone whereon of old the saint stood 
before his people, on this holy stone was Gavin to 
watch his armour. There he came at the sun-setting 
on a night when the wind moved round with the sun, 
a night soft and cool, with little waves fretting among 
the pebbles. On the flat rock he laid his armour, 
and his shield, and kneeled in the dimness. For long 
came the sound of music from a white yacht, music 
that yet did not banish a silence, a stillness that was 
a thing apart, not to be broken. A heron cried loudly, 
suddenly, and flapped past on beating wings. “The 
worst of the night is past,” said Gavin, voicing an 
old superstition. A little way from the shore a por¬ 
poise school rose, and breathed, and plunged onwards. 
Behind the watcher were grey rocks and dark shadows, 


76 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


and yet—did the shadows conceal?—were there weird 
whisperings in the night?—did the wind go chill?— 
was there something at his back, something that 
might touch him? Silence and night. The stories 
of Pate Dol and Dungannon came to Gavin, dreadful 
stories, and yet he never turned his head, never made 
the sign with his fingers that keeps away the evil 
spirits, and the evil wishes. With his hands on the 
hilt of his sword, he kneeled, and the light in the sky 
travelled round towards the east. How near to the 
heart is the old dread of darkness, of the unseen; 
how cold cometh the hand of fear in the silent places. 
Strange images rose before him; wild men, broad- 
chested and hare of arm, leapt from their galleys 
and swam and waded to the shore. He bent his ear 
to their chanting, he saw the gleam of their swords. 
These men were of his folk—of these he had no fear. 
Did a giant form stand before him on the stone, 
looking upon him with stern awful face? There 
was a light about him—his armour gleamed. Was 
it only the late rising moon? 

With the coming of the moon, Gavin rose and shook 
himself as a horse shakes. He leaned on his great 
sword and abode his watch anew. In the Firth a 
great liner’s engines throbbed like a stout heart, 
steady and true, her lights came into his field, his 
thoughts went with her. Away there led the path 
to the world, the strange new world of adventure 
and toil, of cities and people. Soon he would lay 
his armour beside his other treasures and go out 
into that world—to some task that should be set 
him. 

In the chill wind before the dawn you see him, his 
face grey and stern, staring into the void of the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


77 


world. He heard a sharp cry of fear swiftly stilled. 
Never a muscle twitched—on his left hand some¬ 
thing moved,—he saw the white blur of a face; came 
a rustling like a breeze in a flapping sail, then a little 
sobbing cry and silence. Gavin abode his watch. 

Suddenly, from near at hand a corncrake cried; 
there came a great crying of gulls; little birds 
twittered; a lark went soaring; cattle lowed. Gavin 
donned his chain-mail, raised his sword to the east, 
and kissed the blade. It was dawn. And then, 
with the night over, came a little voice—a wondering 
little voice,—a voice with a joy in it somewhere. 
And at the flrst words Gavin leapt like a startled 
horse. 

“Maryland, my Maryland/’ said the voice. “I 
guess you’re only a man.” 

Something rose in the boy’s throat. He had never 
heard a voice like that, soft, and yet clear and fear¬ 
less. His body tingled, his face burned. He had 
never dreamed of such a being as this, for seated a 
little way from him, wrapped in a cloak, was the most 
wonderful being. Pictures of women he knew; he had 
seen women often, in little rowing-boats, but never 
near, for no one landed ever on the Rock, yet here 
before him sat a woman. He looked at her hands— 
such little brown hands,—at her hair falling, at her 
red lips, her white teeth. He noted the look of 
wonder in her eyes—such great eyes,—and the little 
ridiculous line of doubt in the low forehead. He 
came beside her, fearing that she might vanish. Here 
was the answer to the cry in the night, when he had 
been in a world of ghosts. His heart thumped against 
his ribs; he felt himself monstrous big beside this 
little woman. 


78 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


In a moment he felt his hand grasped; the girl 
stood beside him, and then a little hand clasped 
her head, and she would have tumbled, but Gavin 
caught her. 

She smiled a little. 1 ‘ I fell—I am hurt—my head, ’ ’ 
and then she swayed against him, and slowly he put 
an arm round her. Her hair blew across his breast, 
and he looked down. Then came a wonderful tender¬ 
ness; his arm tightened; he patted, as old Mairi 
would pat. He was holding her gently, tenderly, and 
then, at her fear, his arms went round her. 

Under scowling brows, his eyes glanced to right 
and left. He threw his head up, as in challenge, and 
the wind blew in the long plume, and then upwards 
he strode on the hillside, the girl still at his breast, 
her eyes closed. A little trickle of blood oozed in her 
black hair, her brown hand beat at his chest, and 
then fell weakly. Straight as the flight of his own 
arrow, Gavin came to the Look-out and laid his burden 
on the rude bench, and looked at her: she breathed. 
Suddenly he knew that she was a weak thing like a 
lamb. In his sea-chest was a flask of whisky, left 
since the time of snow in April. He hauled out 
Katherine the doll, who opened and shut her eyes re¬ 
peatedly, in protest; he found and unscrewed the 
flask, and put it to the girl’s lips. The captive flut¬ 
tered—her eyes opened and shut like Katherine’s, but 
faster,—her hands pushed at the flask, her feet kicked, 
she choked, her face twisted, she shook her head, 
her lips tight closed. Gavin, looking on, suddenly 
laughed. He had a tremendous laugh. He leaned 
against the wooden upright in the dugout, and the 
walls trembled. The girl sat up suddenly; she rubbed 
her face vigorously, and looked at Gavin under her 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


79 


brows quickly, searchingly—the sweeping plume 
touching the roof, the chain-armour, the bigness 
of him, standing laughing down at her. Her eyes 
sparkled, her lips curved; she must laugh with him, 
gently at first. 

“Oh,” she cried, “I’m crazy. I’ve gone cr-r-azy 
at char-a-des.” She could not stop laughing. There 
was something in her laughter that hurt Gavin. He 
became grave. Not so the girl; she took a great 
gulp of a breath, and laughed, and laughed. Tears 
came to her eyes, and she dabbed pathetically, and 
then she saw the viking helmet, and off she went 
again to her laughing. 

Gavin put his helmet on the bench, and kneeled 
before her. 

“Oh, I’m quite, quite mad,” laughed the girl in 
gasps. “Daddy says bughouse—bug-h-house . . . 
oh!” 

“I do not know bughouse,” said Gavin. 

“No, no; they never d-d-do.” 

Quickly he came beside her. He put his arms 
round her. She held on to him first, then tried to 
put him away. 

“Oh, go away; go away and leave me.” 

“I will,” said Gavin. 

“No, no, not in this cellar—not in this place. 
Where is this place? Don’t leave me, don’t leave 
me. I’ll die if you leave me here.” 

Gavin remembered the trickle of blood, and wetted 
her handkerchief and bathed the bruise. He petted 
the patient the while, as he was wont to pet his dog 
in like circumstances. Under his administrations, 
the laughter ceased, but little sobs came now and then. 
The girl was trembling. 


80 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


4 'There now, there now,” said he, dabbing cold 
water on the wound, "you’ll soon be better, 
and without knowing, without thinking, his fingers 
caught her ear even as they would catch his dog’s 
in play. Irene looked up, startled, her eyes wide 
and dark, her lips parted. Gavin saw the tears glisten¬ 
ing on her lashes, the soft colour in her cheeks, and 
suddenly, swiftly, he bent his face to hers upturned. 
He wanted to press his face to hers; he wanted to 
be gentle with his hands touching her hair; he felt 
tremendous strength in his body. His hand pressed 
her cheek again. Irene made a queer crooning sound 
—all his body thrilled to it, then his lips met her soft 
red lips. A wild thrill like fire went through him, 
as he felt the little pressure of her lips, a little soft 
moving under his. Her eyes, looking up, met his, 
wild and hungry, with half-closed drooping lids, and 
with her look his face changed; the vicious fierce¬ 
ness left it, a radiant boyish smile took its place. 
The blue eyes became wide open and merry. He 
gave her a little shake, his lips curved, and then 
she too smiled; her eyelids fluttered, her lips moved 
tremblingly, like a little boy’s awaking from sleep, 
then her arms tightened round his neck. She looked 
up again suddenly, her lips pouted, then with a little 
soft sound she drew his head down. 

In a little time Gavin felt her hand on his hair; 
she was looking at him starry-eyed. 

"My father says folks have a name to suit them 
somewhere. I never knew that it was so before,” 
whispered Irene Savage, with a splendid colour in 
her face. “My father’s name is Savage.” 

4 'I have a lot of names,” said Gavin, looking at 
her with wondering eyes. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


81 


“There’s lots of room for names about you, but 
tell me all of them. ,, 

“Gavin Sholto Alexander William James Archi¬ 
bald Douglas.” 

“That sounds like the roll-call at college,” said 
Irene. “I’ll call you plain James—-Jim maybe if 
you’re good, and don’t look at me any more—like 
that.” 

“But I want to look,” said Gavin. “I love to 
look. I never saw anything like you before in all 
my life.” 

“How many girls have you told that little story?” 

“I never knew girls. You see, I never spoke before 
to a lady, except old Mairi. I never—saw one near 
enough to touch.” 

“But, oh, have you never been to assemblies— 
dances—with crowds of pretty girls all dolled up?” 

Gavin shook his head. “I can dance the sword- 
dance and the Highland Fling, but no girls’ dances.” 

“H-have you never kiss-kissed anybody b-but 
m-me ? ’ ’ 

“I never learned kissing,” said Gavin, “till just 
now. ’ ’ 

Miss Savage stood up and looked long into his eyes. 

“You’re sure—sure—sure,” she whispered. 

Gavin nodded. 

“It seemed like that,” said she. “N-neither did 
I—not properly.” 





BOOK II 































CHAPTER I. 


IN THE LOOK-OUT. 

1 ‘Did you build this place V’ said Irene, looking 
from one strange trophy to another with a puzzled 
little frown, and to Gavin her voice was like strange 
half-forgotten music, soft and clear and wonderful. 

He felt a thrilling in his limbs, he felt his heart 
pounding against his ribs, and could find no words 
at first, to answer. He opened the canvas screen of 
the window. Away below, the girl saw great black 
cormorants on the rocks, and splashing into the sea. 
Gulls were swimming a little way off-shore. Anon 
there came wild crying, and she saw the fluttering 
of white wings—a little flurry of wings away below. 

“Sometimes / 1 said Gavin, “when I was not very 
big, I would come away here and lie in the heather, 
and look down on that great wide sea, until I felt 
fear near to me—I was not very big. . . .” He 
looked at the girl and she nodded. 

* ‘ The rocks, away, away above me—the tremendous 
black hill all silent, and away down below, the sea 
spreading for ever and ever, and I would hold to the 
heather to keep from running down home, to hear 
known voices. Lying on the open hillside I would 
feel that everything I thought was known, and that 
85 


86 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


things saw everything I did. If I threw a stone, if 
I found a nest in the heather, things knew. When 
a great gull cried, it was like dreadful laughing. . . 

“I know!” cried Irene. “Was it a bird? I heard 
it—but go on, tell me.” 

“You see, I had no other boy to tell things to or 
play games with, and I knew that down there all the 
great fleets of all the world nearly, had sailed. The 
Norse ships swept out of the bay like black sea-snakes 
—long, and deadly, and black. Olaf the Red and 
Hako had looked on the very rocks that I crouched 
among. King Robert of Scotland and his men had 
seen the black loom of the Rock as they sailed for 
the beacon on Turnberry. The battered hulls of the 
Spanish Armada had been tossed and slashed by the 
same waves and spindrift, and—and it was easy to 
make stories about all those things, when the very 
rocks and the seas were just the same, you see, and 
I built this place to be away by myself with my 
stories. ’ * 

“Was Paul Jones’ ship ever down there?” said 
Irene, and pointed a slim forefinger. 

Gavin looked puzzled—he did not know of Paul 
Jones. He shook his head. 

“Well,” said Irene, “if that’s not too mean! But 
I know,” she said, nodding her head gravely—“I 
know that he was off the Old Head of Kinsale in the 
Ranger —an American warship,—because I’ve heard 
the sailors singing. . . . 

“And was it always men and ships you played at? 
Were there no beautiful ladies on desert islands, to be 
rescued ... ?” 

Gavin flushed darkly. 

“I did not learn very much about ladies,” said he, 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


87 


for he could not tell this beautiful girl that women 
were merely objects of scorn for the most part, and 
beneath a man’s notice. 

“I liked Katherine Douglas/’ said he, feeling him¬ 
self a traitor. 11 She was so very brave, thrusting her 
arm through the staple of the door; but all the 
Douglases were brave/’ said he. “And Mary Queen 
of Scots—I think I would have loved to serve her.’’ 

Irene made a little moue. 

“Well, Sir Knight/’ said she, “I do wish you would 
serve me, for I am very hungry, and I am not brave 
like Katherine Douglas. Was her arm fractured?” 

Gavin laughed. 

“I’ll show you another Katherine Douglas,” said 
he. “She’s in that chest; her eyes open and shut, 
and she’s got universal joints.” 

Gavin opened his sea-chest. 

Irene’s eyes opened very widely. She clasped her 
hands and bent over the doll with a little cry of 
pleasure. 

“Where did you find her?” she cried. “This is 
my doll. Sh—she fell into the sea years ago.” 

“Well, I found her,” said Gavin. “You can keep 
her to play with if you like.” He wanted to give 
this wonderful being everything. 

Irene sat with the doll in her lap. She was all 
happy. In a little while she would row back to her 
father and hold Katherine aloft like a trophy. Sud¬ 
denly, at thought of his amazement she laughed aloud, 
and Gavin, watching her in wonder, laughed with her. 

She liked the smiling in his eyes, and resolved to 
wait a little in the strange retreat. 

“Well, I’m hungry, sir,” said Irene, and at that 
Gavin divested himself of his armour. 


88 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Mairi Voullie Vhor’s treasures appeared—knives 
and spoons, and cups and saucers. 

1 ‘ Just wait a little and I will soon get you some¬ 
thing to eat,” said Gavin, and disappeared from the 
trap-door of the Look-out. In a while he returned, 
and set before her bread, and butter, and honey. He 
lit the fire and made coffee, and now Irene was thor¬ 
oughly enjoying herself. This was a kind of picnic 
with a wild man—a really nice wild man. 

She asked endless questions of his life and his 
games, nodding her little head with an air of grave 
wisdom. She gave advice—her brow furrowed. 

“I think you might earn a competence on the 
stage,” said she at last. 

“I don’t want a competence,” said Gavin; “I 
want you.” 

4 ‘Well, I’m really afraid that cannot be. You see, 
while you’re doing all these things, I’ll be looking 
around for a suitable husband; but I’ll promise to 
take an interest in your lifework, and all that, if 
you come to America.” 

“America! But you are not going to America!” 

“I think yes—eventually I’ll go back there.” 

“No,” said Gavin, “you will stay here with me. 

I want you with me. I like doing things for you. 

I like looking at you.” 

Irene laughed happily like a boy. 

“Why, that is very nice of you,” said she; “but 
I think now it is time to be going.” 

“You are not going—I found you. I will keep 
you! ’ ’ 

“This is rather tiresome, don’t you think?” 

“No-o, I think this is fine; I like this. I’ve never 
liked anything like this before.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


89 


* 1 Shall we go now? You, I presume, don’t intend 
to keep me a prisoner, do you?” 

“Do you want to go?” 

“My good sir, don’t be ridiculous. If you will 
row me over to the white steam yacht in the bay, 
I promise you my father will reward you suitably. 
It will be the beginning of your fortune perhaps— 
if you are diligent and sober. I think perhaps you 
might be a success—on the stage,—and with a little 
money to start you, you may become a stage favourite; 
I believe there are very lucrative positions.” Irene 
was still enjoying herself. She had the situation well 
in hand. The strange young man was following her 
every word, as she thought. Still he had such a 
peculiar look, she felt as though she might be speak¬ 
ing to a mountain. Should she allow it, she might 
feel herself very small and futile. 

“I want to kiss you again,” said Gavin, and put 
his hand on her shoulder. Her words had amused 
him. He enjoyed looking at her, felt a tremendous 
tenderness for her. Irene’s heart started to beat. 
Was this a madman? Her hand closed round her 
little pistol, her face flushed with shame; the fool 
who could not know that her kiss was half thankful¬ 
ness and half hysteria—was he a madman ? 

“Mr. Douglas,” said she, trembling a little, “take 
your hand from my shoulder, please. If I am a 
prisoner, I presume you will have a bigger ransom 
if I am returned to my father with a story of good 
treatment. You might perhaps make your bargain. 
I have something of value with me. ’ ’ Irene sat down. 
Her tongue was like a lash. Her knees were trem¬ 
bling. Gavin looked at her in amazement. There 
was ill-temper iii his look. He did not understand. 


90 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


*‘ Listen/’ said he, “I do not want money; I want 
you. I don’t know your father. I would be gentle 
with him for your sake. I have never spoken to a 
woman before but our old housekeeper. I have never 
kissed before till I kissed you. I do not know the 
ways of the world very well, but surely a man takes 
what he wants. Well, I want you.” 

He seated himself quite calmly beside her, his 
breathing calm as a child’s. He put his arm round 
her very tenderly. He bent his face close to hers, 
looking at her eyes. 

“Please don’t,” she said very quietly; “please 
don’t. I want to tell you something.” 

Gavin frowned. “Must you always talk?” said 
he with a little smile. 

“I think,” said Miss Savage, looking very like her 
name, “I think you are not a bad man—a vile man. 
I think you might almost be a gentleman. Give me 
that doll, please, and your pocket-knife,” but even 
then she was thinking of those young men who were 
so unlike her captor. 

In some wonder Gavin handed over Katherine and 
his knife. Her head bent over her doll, Irene spoke 
slowly. “My father is a very fond parent,” said she, 

1 ‘ and I am his only child. Years ago we were in Europe 
and he bought a necklace, a very valuable necklace; 
in it there were seven famous pearls. They were 
called the seven sisters, and were unique. Wishing to 
keep them until I came out—till I grew up,—he 
amused himself by trying to cheat the Customs of 
America. He took those seven from the necklace and 
put them inside this doll, so that I might be interested, 
when he should rediscover them for me. I threw the 
doll overboard, sailing past here ten years ago.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


91 


“Why did you pitch your doll overboard?” said 
Gavin. 

“I wished to play on the island, I think.” 

“It was a very good wish. Well, you are on the 
island now, and you have the doll and everything is 
all right.” 

Irene cut into Katherine without speaking, and 
after a time drew out a little flat case, silk-wrapped 
and sealed, and opened it. 

Gavin took up Katherine and drew the cut edges to¬ 
gether ruefully. Irene gave a little gasp of pleasure. 
Gavin still pressed the edges of the wound together, 
and then turned Katherine hack. “Her eyes still open 
and shut,” said he, and then the longing came over 
him that he must press against his breast this strange, 
soft, beautiful girl. His heart began to thump. His 
mouth felt dry. There was a strange trembling in 
his limbs. He put one arm round Irene’s shoulders 
and forced her back gently, and wondered at the fear 
in her eyes. There was a white circle round her lips. 

“Don’t be frightened,” he whispered, and put his 
hand under her chin. 

Irene’s eyes met his doubtfully—wondering, 
troubled. 

“Mr. Douglas,” said she, “I think if you knew how 
wrong it is to do this, you would not do it; but take 
those—they are valuable—and let me free. You will 
be quite safe. I promise I will say nothing to any 
one. ’ ’ 

Gavin took the pearls in his hand. 

“They are very beautiful,” said he. “Is this not 
for a lady’s pleasure?” and held them against her 
white throat, and looked at her. 

“Now,” said he, smiling his patient smile, “have 


92 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


I not waited a long time? I’m wearying to kiss you, 
and I don’t want to kiss you roughly, because you are 
so very little and helpless.” 

“I am not helpless,” said Irene. ‘‘You coward. 
I have begged for freedom. I have bribed you to 
let me out of this miserable place. I don’t know 
what you mean, or if you are a madman, but I am 
not helpless. I am not helpless—you appalling 
coward. ’ ’ 

“I am not a coward, I think,” said Gavin, and 
pulled her very gently towards him. 

Irene took her hand from her pocket. She pushed 
the muzzle of her little gun against Gavin. 

“Look!” she cried, “look! Leave me or I’ll pull 
the trigger.” 

“You have a beautiful mouth,” said Gavin. “I’m 
glad you-” 

The noise deafened her. 

Gavin straightened, looking into her eyes. She 
could not take her eyes from his. She saw the colour 
leave his face, saw his hand grasp his chest, saw him 
try to fall away from her, and slowly, slowly, still 
looking, bend over and over until his head was on 
her lap, and then a great heave of his body, and he 
was lying at her feet. She was free. 

She looked at the door; she stepped over the fallen 
man and came to the foot of the ladder. A great red 
splash was forming. 

“Oh, my God!” she cried, and came back swiftly 
and kneeled, tearing at his jacket and vest. He was 
breathing. She got the whisky flask and put it to 
his lips, her shaking hands spilling the spirit. She 
wiped it from his face. She tore her skirts and tried 
to staunch the wound. There was another in his 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


93 


side. Frantically she tried to lift him, to put a 
bandage below that other wound. 

“I’m too heavy,” said Gavin. 

“Don’t die, oh, don’t die, please. Don’t die!” 
Her face was all broken. She cried with difficulty, 
like a man. 

She felt his hand on her wrist. “Don’t go away,” 
said Gavin. “You’re mine. I want you. I’m going 
to keep you now. Listen! I, Gavin Douglas, take 
you, Irene Savage, for my wife. That’s handfasting. 
Will that do?” 

“You can’t, you can’t!” she cried. “You need 
ministers, and lawyers, and witnesses, and a ring.” 
His hand released its grip, his eyes closed. She saw 
him set his teeth, and felt his grasp tighten as he 
held her again. With wide eyes she watched the 
blood ooze through her silly bandage and run thickly 
on his swarthy skin; she wondered why his skin 
should be brown, and felt a burning shame. 

“Say I, Irene Savage, take Gavin Douglas to be— 
to be my-” 

“Husband,” she gasped, and then, “I do, oh, I 
do—anything, but don’t die. Tell me where I can 
get help.” 

“If you’ll help me to my feet, I’ll get you help. 
I’m all right. I won’t die. I’ll soon be better.” 

Before she could help, he got on his knees and 
pulled himself to his feet, holding to the table. She 
took one arm. 

“Lean heavy—oh, I’m sorry—oh, it’s bleeding 
again.” 

Gavin got to the ladder. 

“Give me that whisky, please, Irene.” She 
jumped. Like a flash she put it into his hand. There 


94 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


was something akin to relief, to joy, in doing anything 
for him. He took a long drink, and another, and 
went up the ladder and flung the heavy hatch 
open. 

Irene steadied him as he half lay on the roof. 
Then he put his lips into a droll shape, and gave a 
long piercing whistle, so loud that her ears buzzed. 
Again and again he whistled, and waited, and then 
he nodded. 

“You’ll have help soon,” said he, and smiled to 
her, “for I’m bringing witnesses.” 

I ‘ Witnesses! ’ ’ 

He nodded his head. 

“You wanted witnesses; you forget we’re married, 
you and I ? ” 

“Oh, that,” said Irene, and reddened, her fingers 
at her lips. 

Two figures appeared on the shoulder of the hill. 
Gavin whistled and whistled, until they saw him. 
Then, when the figures were out of sight in a hollow, 
he hauled himself from the hatchway, and Irene 
followed and helped to close the door. 

“We might want the place yet,” said he. 

Irene had no answer. She was weeping. “It just 
went off,” she whispered, and threw the little gun 
from her. 

Pate Dol was in the act of handing over the letters 
when he heard Gavin whistle. “There’s maybe a 
young beast gaun ower the rocks,” said he, and cried 
to Dungannon. As they hurried upward, Douglas 
stood at the door bareheaded. He held a letter in 
his hand, and the hand trembled. 

II It canna be Sholto’s writing, ’ ’ said he. ‘ 4 Sholto’s 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


95 


dead in Africa; Sholto was killed by an elephant 
the year Janet and me fell out. ,, 

Sholto had been his younger brother, a brilliant 
soldier, a man who had done great work. Yet all 
his effects had been sent home years ago. . . . 

‘‘Open the letter /’ said Campbell. “I want to 
get to my cauliflowers . 5 ’ Together they entered the 
house. 

As they climbed up the path above the house, lis¬ 
tening now and then, and answering Gavin’s whistle, 
Dungannon drew his breath for a moment and looked 
back over the bay. Below him cattle were grazing 
peacefully, the air was cool, the Ayrshire coast seemed 
very near. There were long .ribbons of calmness 
stretching across the ruffled waters of the bay, like 
rivers. 

“This place has been the making of me,” said 
Dungannon. “I have boots, and suits, and shirts, and 
money laid by—have I not kept away from the drink 
for months and years? I would not be leaving the 
Rock for a fortune, for it is in the heart of me to 
be a runagate on the face of the earth.” 

“Och, I don’t know,” said Pate; “the jumping-jake 
and the grasshopper see a lot of new ground, and 
it’s likely they will enjoy the louping well enough.” 

“Well, it’s thanking the Holy Mother I am that 
the wandering spirit is gone from me; it’s steadying 
to be going into a made bed every night, not but 
the back of a dyke was rare and pleasant too.” 

“Yon’s a fine yacht,” said Pate, pointing. “The 
price of the painting on her would keep a family for 
a long spell.” 

Dungannon looked at the yacht a long time, turn- 


96 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


ing now and then as he walked up the hill. At his 
heart was a strange longing. He was seeing in his 
mind the clean feather at her forefoot, and hearing 
the laughing of seas thrust from her bows; the night 
whine of the rigging was in his ears, and like a vision, 
he saw a velvet-dark sky and the stars signalling, the 
one to the other. . . . 

“Holy Mother!” he whispered, his hands clenched, 
“do not be letting her put the spell on me again— 
the grey cold sea. . . 

“Yon lady will rowl in a beam sea,” said he sneer¬ 
ing. “I would not be aboord her for six pounds a 
month and all found,” and he turned to look at her 
again. 

Pate was paying little heed to the Irishman. “1 
am not missing any of the beasts,” said he; “they’re 
all yonder.” With that Gavin’s whistle came again, 
and Pate saw him, and stopped. 

“He has a lass,says he; “but that’s no’ likely 
to make him whistle. Is it not wonderful how young 
folk will come thegither?” 

“The girl is waving,” said Dungannon, and com¬ 
menced to run. “The boy is not himself, to be half- 
lying and half-sitting, like yon. ’ ’ 

When the henchmen reached Gavin he had a smile 
for them, but his face was white. 

“This lady is my wife,” said he, bringing them 
up with a round turn. ‘ 4 She wished witnesses. Dun¬ 
gannon, you will take her to her tent, and row out 
to that white yacht in the bay, and then wait and 
take her back. Is that right?” He turned to Irene. 
She nodded her head, for so she had promised, wish¬ 
ing only to get away. “Pate, you will give me a 
hand. I had an accident with my little pistol, but 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


97 


I’ll be able to walk down. Come soon,” said he, 
smiling to Irene; “I’ll be wearying for you.” 

Irene looked at the little jewel-case in her hand. 
“These—these are yours,” she whispered, putting 
the case into his hand. He would have refused, but, 
“Keep them till I come for them,” she whispered. 

“We’ll be putting in a step,” said Pate, looking 
at the lady. “I would not like another accident,” 
and Gavin put his arm round the hardy old man. A 
little way down the hillside he turned and waved 
back. 

“I did it; I shot him,” Irene whispered to Dun¬ 
gannon. “Will he die on the way?’’ 


CHAPTER II. 

IN WHICH DUNGANNON GETS A HAND’S JOB 
BEFORE THE MAST. 

For a while Irene watched the two figures descend 
the hill, and waved a frantic hand as the wounded 
man turned. 

‘‘Will he die on the way?” she cried, and made 
as if to follow. 

“Is it die, Mistress Douglas?” said Dungannon, 
“him die! D’ye think, now, ye would shoot an 
elephant av a man with that little skooter,” and he 
pointed to the wicked-looking little gun glinting in 
the heather. “Ye’ve no more than let the blood out 
av him. The doctor will put him to rights wid stickin’ 
plaster. If I could be getting the bullet now, ye 
would be wearing it for a charm—your first gift to 
your man. Ye’re the lucky lady.” 

“Will you take me down, please,” for the two 
figures had disappeared. “I did not mean to shoot. 
I was afraid. He’s not my man—I’m not his wife. 
I-I’m n-not Mistress Anybody—I-I’m ” 

“For the love av mercy now, do not be crying for 
a thrifle like that. If ye’re not his wife, who should 
be knowing it better than yourself? By my soul, 
98 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


99 


but it won’t be easy to explain why ye shot a man 
that was not your own property to do wid what ye 
liked. Have ye thought av that?” 

“I-I would never s-shoot anybody.” The words 
came back to Dungannon like a wail. 

“Not complete,” said the Irishman; “enough maybe 
to take the pith out av him. Is that your little 
white tent above the rocks yonder?” 

“Oh yes, yes,” cried the girl, and started almost 
to run. Somehow she felt if only she could be among 
things she knew she would become sane—would cease 
to be a murderess, for all she knew; she would awake 
and find herself looking at the little ventilator at 
the top of the tent pole; she would see the little 
contrivance the carpenter had fitted on the pole, for 
“hanging things up on.” If she could splash herself 
with water and put on white cool things, she would 
be all right and sane, and oh! everything. 

“Don’t hurry, mistress—miss, I mane. Ye’ve a 
lifetime before ye. ...” 

Irene gained the tent. Her little varnished punt 
was drawn up on the beach—everything was un¬ 
touched, and yet she felt that she had been absent 
a long age. She sat on her camp-chair, very straight 
and severe. 

“Do you see that steam yacht?” said she. 

“I do, now,” said Dungannon; “a beauty 
she is. Ain’t thim little tents most salubrious 
now ? ’ ’ 

“Will you take the tent down—strike it, I mean, 
and row to that yacht?” 

“Anything to oblige ye, lady. Will ye be for off 
and leaving him to welter in his blood ? ’ ’ Dungannon 
• was in fear of the white steam yacht. 


100 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“Yon said—you said he wouldn’t die; but I must 
go—I must go.” 

“Well, now, it wouldn’t be very pleasant if Mairi 
came on ye here—if ye’ve shpoiled the young man.” 

“Who is Mairi?” 

“An old termagant, saving your presence, an old 
lady that can fly at a body. She’s had most av the 
rearin’ av the man ye say is not your husband.” 

“Oh—old!” 

“Auld as Dooley’s ass, but as sound as the bells o’ 
Armagh!” 

“Has he got any mother?” 

Dungannon gasped. “Misthress,” says he, “that’s 
where the boat left ye. I’ve misremembered a thing. 
I cannot lave that boy.” 

“Will you row me to the yacht, please?” 

“Sure, now, miss, can ye think av leaving him? 
—bathed in gore as he will be. Ye’ll go far afore 
ye’ll meet the like av him.” 

“I do hope so,” formed in the girl’s brain; but 
her lips were silent, lest he might now be dying. 

“He has arms on him would crush the life out av 
a man easy. He’s the greatest man wid a horse, 
an’ him a boy, and the skin av him like milk for 
whiteness.” 

“Brown,” said Irene into space, and twisted her 
hands together. 

“I misremembered, misthress —brown as a brama- 
pootra egg, and that’s a beautiful brown.” 

Irene rose and stood at the tent guys. 

“You are an Irishman—will you help me?” 

“Well, now, av ye put it that way-” Dun¬ 

gannon bent to the task, dexterous as a sailor. He 
spoke on at intervals. “Could ye get me a hand’s 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


101 


job afore the mast? I can steer and splice. There’s 
a fiddle av mine beyant there, and there’s the picture 
av a lady in a silver frame, and a dollop of coin,” 
said he. “ Could you be at peace in the little boat 
now, av I was to go for them?” 

“Can you not leave them until you return from 
the White Lady —the yacht yonder?” 

“White Lady is it? I’ll never return. I might 
have knowed it,” said he softly. “Ye are not onder- 
standing the Black Gentleman you did not marry— 
the little boy that cherished me, and laughed at the 
pictures on my feet, and comforted me when the 
longing was on me for the fine places on the other 
side av the hills. The battles and the histories he 
would be reading, misthress, and me telling him the 
stories, and Pate Dol as well, the swimming and the 
sailing in the skiff, and the making av his armour. 
I’m laving him, misthress, for what I am not know¬ 
ing; but it is murther in here,” said he, striking his 
breast, “murther and tears in the heart av Dun¬ 
gannon; and if I went back widout ye, he would 
draw the one leg av me through the other.” 

He launched the punt, put the tent aboard, and 
left Irene with the oars, paddling till he returned. 
She saw him coming running, with now and then a 
look over his shoulder. He carried a black bag in 
his hand. 

Without a word he took the oars, rowing sullenly. 
Irene was afraid to speak. 

“Ue’s yonder on the broad av his back, and the 
doctor with him. The bullet went round his ribs, 
and came out at the back av him.” 

“Did he speak?” said Irene. 

“He did, now. Says he, in a little voice, Where 


102 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


is the lady?’ says he, and behind him the old doctor 
tapped his head like he was wandering in his wits. 
‘She’s making ready to come,’ says I. May the 
saints forgive me the lie! And he smiled and closed 
his eyes peaceable.” 

“And the old woman—his nurse—Mairi?” 

“Huddled in a corner like an old she-cat—spitting 
and a-tremble av fear that he’ll slip away among 
their fingers. They are not knowing how he was 
shot, for Pate Dol told me he dared him to say but 
just he did have an accident wid his own pistol, 
and never to say a word about you, in case he—he 
slipped away. Pate Dol was telling the doctor that 
tale when I came away.” 

The girl’s face was drawn with fear. “Will he 
die?” she whispered. She would go back—she would 
not run away—surely she was blameless. 

“Miss,” said Dungannon, “if a little lady the like 
av you, now, was created to bring down and kill 
that great fine boy, they had little to do that planned 
it, except that he would be more at home among 
the old heroes wherever they do be gathered on the 
other side.” 

“Do you mean America?” said Irene, too shaken 
to think. 

“I do not,” said Dungannon; “at least I never 
seen anny av them there.” 

What passed between John Savage and Irene I 
know not, only this, that when Irene was asleep with 
a wet bandage on her brow and Miss Sheppard seated 
as prim as ever at her bedside, her father came on 
deck and looked long at the white house on the Rock. 

“The blinds are still up,” said he. “I expect the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


103 


little girl just splores a bit—a dying man cannot walk 
a mile or two and smile at the end of it—I guess not. 
He’ll be feeling pretty blue, I reckon, poor gink; 
butted into the wrong sort altogether. Should have 
been a boy, little Indian Famine,” said he, and 
went below. 

In the evening he came into Irene’s state-room. 

* 4 Well, honey,” said he, “are you feeling pretty fit 
now? Your friend hasn’t shuffled off yet—window- 
blinds still up, and that’s a sure sign in these parts. 
Don’t come to dinner if you would rather not. Miss 
Sheppard can fix something for you.” 

Irene lay thinking. Now and then a gull cried, and 
there came the little plout-plop of waves. The setting 
sun shone through the open porthole; she heard 
laughter from little pleasure rowing-boats. There 
was a horrible lump in her throat. She swallowed 
and swallowed, but still—she was unhappy—she put 
her head against her sleeve. 

“Oh, I was a beast—a beast; a vulgar common 
creature—worse than that.” 

Into her mind’s vision came the swarthy scowling 
face, the half-closed lids, the fierce grip of his hand, 
and then—then she shut her eyes. Why—why—why 
had she done it? What made her do it? Amazed, 
she felt herself begin to tremble—her whole body 
shook. She saw herself, Irene Savage, haughty, 
proud, and cold—Irene Savage, with her arms 
round a man’s neck, drawing his face down, down, 
down—oh, Heavens! If she could run somewhere, 
run— run away and hide—hide herself from that pic¬ 
ture, blot out the thought of the smiling face above 
hers, forget the hands that shook her—shook her, 
that touched her ears. At that a tremor went over 


104 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


her to her finger-tips, like reading a ballad of great 
deeds. . . . 

She heard his voice again—“I want you”—the 
drawl, the patience, the sureness of it. “I never 
learned kissing,” and then she knew. “I never 
learned kissing.” Nobody but a boy could say that. 
She felt herself become happy—of course, it was 
because he was only a boy—or was it—was it be* 
cause—because he had never learned? 

Well, she would make him kiss some one. Her 
mind pictured girls, Molly Stuvesant—her dark eyes, 
her curly hair, her red lips, her white teeth. She 
saw Gavin, his outrageous helmet sweeping the rafters, 
heard his laugh; suddenly she knew that she had loved 
to be laughed at for the first time in her life, and 
then she pictured Molly with him laughing too, with 
her crushed red lips pouting, made for kisses—no, 
no, no—a thousand times no. She pictured herself 
at his bedside, his brown arms on the white coverlet. 
Was he in pain? this boy that never learned kissing, 
Gavin Sholto Alexander William James Douglas— 
Jim, her—her man. 

“Misthress Douglas,” she whispered, like Dun¬ 
gannon. What were Scots marriages? Was she 
really married? Her heart gave a tremendous leap. 
* ‘This lady is my wife.” Again she heard his voice, 
saw Pate and Dungannon with their bonnets off. 

“God bless me, is that so, ma’am?” from Pate; 
“pleased indeed.” 

“Good luck to ye, Misthress Douglas,” from Dun¬ 
gannon. 

No, no, not really and truly married. It was all 
wrong. Still she could not tell her father that part 
—nor Miss Sheppard. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


105 


Irene turned her face to the pillow, buried it deep, 
deep down. 

At dusk same softly a weird minor melody, a 
crying for the moon, for the lands beyond the sun¬ 
set, the melody of a god wandering among strange 
stars, seeking the path again where was the laughter 
of comrades and the sounds of friends’ footsteps— 
but in vain, in vain. 

Her father came to see her again after dinner. 
“Has that queer fellow’s music been annoying you?— 
a bit eerie, I think. He started after another old 
shellback put his truck aboard. The knight fellow is 
all right, and the skipper says the fiddler is a sailor 
man. He can do with another hand—I went across 
in the launch,—fine old fellow the doctor. He was 
amazed that I knew of the accident. The boy’s 
father seems to be a queer cuss. Well, I suppose this 
finishes your little escapades, Indian Famine. Better 
begin thinking seriously about marriage.” 

“All right, father,” said Irene, “I will.” 

As he kissed her good-night, “You’re a nice little 
miss—did you know,” said he; “your cheeks have 
plenty colour?” 

“Put out the light, please,” said Irene very softly. 

And now we must return to James Douglas as he 
stood in front of his door gazing at the letter in his 
hand, and with Dr. Ludovic urging him to open and 
read. 

Douglas broke the seal and looked at the end of 
the letter. “Aye, it’s Sholto,” said he, and read 
aloud. 


CHAPTER III. 

TELLS HOW WORD CAME FROM THE EAST. 

“Dear Jimmie” —Douglas read aloud, his chest 
heaving strangely,—“Don't you be vexed when you 
read this. I will be only a wee bit on the road in 
front of you, having met the end, as our forebears 
were wont, with my face to the foe and my sword 
red. I'm lying at all ease, well served, and yet all 
my desire is to lie flat and drink my fill at Baldy 
Mhor’s spoot, yonder where the water-cress all but 
chokes the cold spring. I feel that one long, long 
draught would make me well, and yet can water heal 
a sword-thrust? No, it is youth calling—home call¬ 
ing—what a bitch is this English, it's hame crying 
in me, Jimmie. I’m hame-sick. You will have been 
thinking me dead this long while, but I'm lying here 
sore stricken at El Amara. The stars are close above 
me, wee fires glow and fade bonnily, the jackals yowl, 
and stallions (what bonny horse) are restive in the 
night. Man, it's sair to die alone, but this is like 
speaking to you. 

“Jimmie, would ye like to hear tell of a story? 
The last word ye heard from me was when I was with 
the regiment in India, and I got leave to shoot game 
in Africa—a year's leave. Ye mind my wife, Jimmie 
106 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


107 


—the poor thing. May be I was overhearing and 
careless, but man, James, never knowingly, and yet 
word came to me that she had forgotten me in London, 
and then I went on leave. Africa never saw me. 
I came to London to see for myself. Nobody knew 
in the bearded hunter the man that was brevet-colonel, 
and then I looked and I saw. He was a poor man that 
my wife preferred—a vaunter, an immaculate fellow, 
with coarse hands for a thoroughbred. He would 
not have looked a man, on the hill, on a wet day. I 
think he would be a town man. I shaved my beard 
off and called at his flat, and found my lady wife 
there—the poor soft thing. It was not hard I struck 
him (on his own mat), just the flat of my hand on 
his dirty mouth, and the man went down gasping 
like a trout, and his eyes goggling. It takes heart to 
meddle with a man’s wife, and he had nane. He 
died gasping, and that poor useless woman, slobbering 
and fainting. I took her to her home and left her, 
and leaving the door, walked into Janet your wife. 
She kent. I would have passed her, but she kent. 

44 ‘I saw it in your eyes/ she said. I was not heed¬ 
ing for capture. What did I care then after that 
woman’s lamentations for the petty thing she thought 
a man, but Janet was of a different breed. Man, I 
can see her fine lips curl in scorn now. 

“ ‘They would hang you,’ said she, and I kind of 
saw all the little rabbits of men sitting round and 
making little rules to save their dirty little lives, and 
I laughed. She could make you laugh, that tremen¬ 
dous woman. The law!—there is no pack law until 
the pack is a pack of cowards. The race to the swift, 
and the battle to the strong. Yes, that is law, but 
that man was not swift—he was fast. He was not 


108 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


stronge in battle—his heart failed him. How she 
twisted and played with words! She painted pic¬ 
tures—you, Jimmie, a K.C., and me a prisoner to 
be gaped at in a stuffy court, and that poor silly 
woman that was my wife, with her tears and her 
tawdry appeal. Cannot you hear the twaddle, the 
story of soul-hunger and soul-mates, as if that kind 
were ever anything but half-souled. Whiles I hid 
in your own house, until I was again the hunter. 
You were busy with your cases. You were a keeper 
of the law, and you we could not tell. Often Janet 
would tell me of you, and once I saw you in court, 
and London was buzzing with yon man ’s death. When 
the time was ripe, I sailed, with only Janet Erskine, 
that fine woman your wife, to bid me God-speed, 
she, and your boy and his nurse—a sneaking kind of 
woman with a roving eye, I thought. I ken what 
has happened. Man, Jimmie, think shame! It was 
my fault; I should never have heeded Janet, but 
I was weary for a friend's face, and never kent the 
minute when these sterilised ferrets of the law, these 
ferrets of the borough, would come creeping up and 
put bracelets on your father’s son. It were too long 
a tale to tell how I came to the desert or how I died. 
Long ago, I aye had a great love for Ishmael and Esau, 
these men of wide spaces, smelling of the flocks, hard 
lean men, loving horses and women—flock-masters. 
On the desert were men of that breed, dignified, 
calm-eyed, arrogant, fierce, and vindictive, yet simple 
and hospitable, calling a spade a spade (like the Old 
Testament). They have simple words for the restless 
wife who turns to another, no blethers of soul-mates 
and mutual attraction, and all that vocabulary of 
weakness that seeks to hide lust. 4 She played the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


109 


harlot/ they will say. Simple and direct, is it not? 
That should be the heading of most divorces—that 
or the male equivalent. It would be honest at 
least, and sell the papers too. Well, well, in the 
desert I found a kind of peace—a man cannot 
do much with these people except he be a great 
prophet who can move their blood and shape a path 
for their feet, but the sand covers a path in the 
night. I have cavalry here, the finest horsed cavalry 
in the world, and men picked as you would pick a 
choice wine. I loved the training of these sons of 
the wide spaces—I loved to teach them to be clean 
—to think cleanly. I think somehow that only new 
peoples are clean and simple and frugal. They have 
droll notions of fighting, skirling, and showing off 
and gun-play, advance and retire as in an old dance, 
and whirling like the Circassian Circle. If I could 
put good Scotch dourness into them—but, man, we 
did wonders under the sun on the burning sands with 
me busy translating ‘‘Cavalry Training” into shrill 
Arab yells—there was no need of riding schools—they 
ride as birds fly, only that there are many tribes 
a-warring, that know nothing of shock action. Still, 
when we advanced, we advanced like a wave, on and 
on and on, and curled over and swamped the enemy. 
It was not always war. There were horses and sheep 
and goats, and camels and asses, like the flocks of 
Jacob. There were new wells to be digged and grain 
to be garnered—a bonny how-do-ye-do for a brevet- 
colonel! I think maybe this land was in my blood 
from some old Crusader in the North who sleeps 
somewhere in a little church cross-legged, awaiting 
the bugle to rise again in harness. 

“Sometimes in the night I think of that poor 


110 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


woman, (that was once my wife), who thought in 
terms of servants and crushes, in stuffy towns, but 
not often. There was one here of the desert fine as 
silk, tempered like Toledo steel—she, with eyes like 
a dove, and teeth like the sheep going up from the 
shearing; she could cool the hottest breath of the 
desert wind with her little hand. Her voice brought 
peace like a rilling brook. I have dreamed of a son 
that would know these people from his mother’s 
blood, a leader with the caution of the North, the 
far-sightedness of a Scot; one who would battle long 
and endure, who would wield these people and lead 
a nation of proud and valiant men—a Scot and an 
Arab—but how do our dreams fade. I have no son, 
but a daughter—wild and wilful and loving, ruling 
her servants with a look, and her father with a laugh. 
Some day I think that there will come men from her 
house that will rule men and love horses, like that 
old Duke of Albany in far Scotland long ago. I 
think soon I will be back among you when Allah 
snaps the little chain that binds me to this life. We 
are scattered wide, but I dream of a great battalion 
of Douglas that will one day rise in another place; 
and when the battalion is sized and in line, we will 
not be so far apart, and friends will be about us. 
This word will come to you—it is well.—Penned by 
my own hand, in camp by the oasis at El Amara, and 
signed in deep affection, 

“Sholto Douglas.” 

James Douglas set down the letter. 

“Ludovic,” he cried, “think of poor Sholto.” 

“I never met a family like yours for thinking of 
each other—think of Janet Erskine.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


111 


“Man, I am by with thinking—I’ve thought on 
her this twenty year, and now it’s finished. Now I 
can fathom her smile, proud and scornful, and yet 
pitiful. She would never sully her son’s name, not 
even to keep her man’s love—no, nor her man for 
that matter. Well, she was right. I was not worth 
keeping. I was the clever fellow—the know-all— 
the blase—and oh! what was I to that woman 
when her eyes smiled at me, but a poor thing, fearing 
scorn from the world—fearing the sly smile, the nod 
in the clubs, and there she stood in that place and 
smiled. I know now what the smile meant. You 
are the father of my son. That was her meaning. 
And yet a word, Ludovic—she might have given me 
a word. Oh, Sholto, ye kent her better than me, 
and I think shame that our folk should take service 
like this, and so ill requite it.” 

“Well, well,” said the doctor, “the thing is finished. 
“Janet knew you to a hair. Do you think, as Sholto 
says, that you, a keeper of the law, would have 
shielded Sholto, your brother, a murderer (which he 
never was) ? But that’s neither here nor there. He 
would have hanged for all that. I think that you 
would have taken a savage delight in upholding the 
law— a y, if it were killing you, either that or thrown it 
up altogether. You would have botched it some way. ’ ’ 

“And Janet, where is Janet?” cried Douglas. 
* 1 Oh, man, what can I say to Janet ? ’ ’ 

“You will say what comes to you to say, and I 
think, that if you took Gavin by the hand and said, 
*Janet, woman, here is a son worthy of his mother,’ 
I think, man, that she would forgive you.” 

“Ay,” said Douglas, with his hand at his forehead. 
“There’s Gavin; there’s aye Gavin.” 


112 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


At that Mairi Voullie Vhor hurled herself into the 
room. 

“Gavin’s shot deid!” she screamed. “Gavin’s shot 
deid! Come and see your deid son! Deid, deid, deid, 
and me living—He has ta’en awa’ the young.*’ 

The doctor ran without a word, and Douglas stag¬ 
gered up, his eyes staring. He caught at things 
blindly. They were carrying Gavin into his room, 
Pate Dol and Ludovic. 

* 1 Dead be damned,’* said the doctor. “Tell that 
old wife to stop her howling.” It was only when 
greatly moved that Campbell swore. They put Gavin 
to his bed, and the doctor issued his orders like a mar¬ 
tinet. There was a stillness in the house that made 
strange and loud the ticking of clocks, and the noise 
of fowl. Campbell at last gave Gavin a draught. 

“Go you to sleep,” said he. “What string of 
beads is this at your pillow?” 

“That’s my wife’s beads,” said Gavin. “She’s 
coming here soon.” 

“Of course she is,” said the doctor; “but sleep 
you before she arrives. I’ll waken you to receive 
her.” Then turning to Pate Dol, “Come you,” said 
he, “and explain this shooting.” 

Douglas sat down heavily at his son’s bedside. In 
a while he saw Dungannon run along the shore with 
his fiddle in the black bag, but never thought about 
it. He saw Pate put off in the little punt with dun¬ 
nage aboard; but his brain did not react—it con¬ 
veyed nothing—it mattered nothing. He was bowed 
and broken and ashamed. 

“Pate’s last word to Dungannon was droll too. 
“Good-bye, ‘Grasshopper,’ ” said he; “ye’ll be sing¬ 
ing soon.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


TELLS HOW PATE DOL PUT GAVIN TO SLEEP AND IRENE 
LANDED ON THE ROCK THE SECOND TIME. 

Gavin awoke and pulled himself upright in his bed. 

‘‘Send me Pate Dol,” said he. 

“Pate is away in the skiff/’ said his father. “My 
boy, there is something I want to tell you-” 

“I don’t want to hear anything, father,” said 
Gavin. “See if Pate is coming back yet.” 

Douglas rose and looked across the bay. “I think 
I see the skiff. Don’t talk any more, Gavin, or your 
uncle will be rampaging in among us for talking like 
a pair of sweetie wives.” 

“All right, I will be quiet; but go and tell Pate 
to come and sit here, and you take a turn round and 
see if everything is all right.” 

In a while Pate came into the room, turning his 
bonnet nervously in his hand. 

“Take that big chair, Pate, and sit here,” said 
Gavin. “My father is wearying for the air.” 

When Douglas left the room, Gavin spoke. 

‘ ‘ Where is Dungannon ? Why does not Dungannon 
bring Irene—bring my wife that I found—here?” 

“It is likely that your wife will be away for her 
113 



114 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


clothes—women are devils for clothes, and worse 
wanting them. They’ve a terrible hankering for cloth 
of all descriptions. Will I read you a chapter from 
the Book, or can you be tholing without it, seeing 
it’s not the Sabbath?” 

“When will my wife have all her clothes?” 

“Maybe by the morn’s afternoon, seeing she’ll 
naturally be in a hurry back to you. Be easy, Gavin; 
you ’ll have enough of wives before long. I’m mairrit, 
and I know. Listen you till I put ye to sleep, 
Gavin.” 

“There was a time I was at the fishing, Gavin, 
and there used to be terrible fine lassies would come 
in droves to gut the fish. Some of them would be a 
little coarse, just like the herring, and others terrible 
fine beings. Well, when I was a young man, before 
Mairi Voullie Vhor put the tether on me, I was a fair 
devil for the women—sure and certain, Gavin. God 
forgive me! I wish I was young again. But anyway 
at this place where all the lassies were gutting the 
fish, the diversions we would be having in the eve¬ 
ning! We would have a good taste and be in fine 
trim for the dancing, an’ wan night we were hard at 
it, with the fiddles going here and there, and melodeons 
and mouth-organs—Guid kens how we could make a 
job of it wi’ all that music playing different sets. It 
was moonlight, and us all dancing and hooching, 
and there was wan lassie wis the queen of all the 
lassies, one of these dour surly kind that seldom 
spoke, and man, even to hear her curse was nice. 
In among us she comes, swaying this way and that way 
from her hips, her lips curling and her teeth shining. 
I tell you, Gavin, she was raised, and when they are 
raised, the surly kind are hard to beat. God! the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


115 


laughing of her at our dancing! ‘Dance!’ she cried; 
‘do ye call this dancing? I’ll show ye dancing,’ and 
with that she louped over the dyke and stripped her¬ 
self, oh, sure and certain. She came back over the 
dyke like a white statue, and the moon was all that 
was on her. I never was much set up wi’ naked 
statues, but I mind I thought her terrible bonny 
and raised-like. ‘I’ll show ye dancing,’ she cries, 
and flings her hair behind her with a toss of her head, 
curling and glittering it was in the light. I’ve mind 
of the dancing yet, Gavin. The other lassies stood 
still and silent, and shamed and angry, but the 
fiddlers kept on. It was just a dream, the arms 
and the legs and the body of her, and the long 
mane flying, her cheeks red-like, and her teeth 
white. At the end of her dance, she gave a wee 
low laugh, and turned and ran. Man, the fiddles 
were flung down and the melodeons, and we were all 
after her—after yon wee low laugh; but, man, we 
never cotch her.” 

“Was she so bonny, Pate?” 

“Bonny was the word, Gavin, but she looked mair 
than bonny. She looked brave, like a skiff close 
hauled, and she was the bonniest runner for a lass 
that ever I mind. Nae wichle wauchle the way the 
best o’ women run, but away with her, lifting her 
legs like a boy, as bonny as the flight o’ a gull. Could 
ye sleep noo, Gavin?” 

“No, nor sleep. Tell me some more stories. Your 
own or the old tales that Hacko loved, the old tales 
of the North.” Pate sat thinking. 

“Look out of the window and tell me what you see, 
Pate,” said Gavin. 

‘ ‘ High water and very calm. ’ ’ 


116 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“Is there no sign of Dungannon, Pate?” 

“There is no sign of him, Gavin; there is nothing 
but a porthole light shining from the white yacht. 
Somebody has slept and forgot the light, but no 
sign of Dungannon, not so much as the wail of his 
fiddle.” 

“I have thought I was hearing his fiddle sometimes, 
Pate.” 

“It would be the wind in the trees. Can ye not 
sleep now, Gavin?” 

“Did you tell the doctor that I fell and shot 
myself ? ’ ’ 

“These would be my very words, and I said that 
Dungannon went across to the village in the lighthouse 
boat, that he had left us in a turravee. Your father 
is a troubled man, Gavin. Could ye not sleep?” 

“IT1 sleep now. Is there no sign?” 

“Just the light shining on the water. Sleep, lad, 
sleep, the light’s out.” 

It was then that Irene curled herself up in the 
snug darkness of a summer’s night and began to 
think seriously of marriage. From the dark porthole 
she looked across to Gavin’s light and thought of 
him. This audacious boy to play with, with his 
straight look, the size of him. Marriage would not 
be such a trial with that boy to spoil and be spoiled 
by, to quarrel with, and make it up again. But 
that was all quite, quite impossible. There was 
some one moving above her. She could hear the 
shuffling of bare feet, and quickly she dressed and 
made her way on deck. Dungannon was pulling 
gently the painter of the little row-boat. She laid 
a white hand on his sleeve. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


117 


*'*Where are you going now, man?” said she. 

“Misthress, it has come over me to go back yonder,” 
said he, and his face was white and shining; “I can¬ 
not abide it, and the light from his room yonder glit¬ 
tering on the sea like a track to heaven over the 
waters.” 

“Row me with you then, Dungannon,” said she, 
and softly these two climbed aboard, but Dungannon 
had not his fiddle. 

“The old woman will be sitting with Gavin,” said 
he, “the old one that rules the Rock and all that’s 
on it, barring the lighthouse. The door will be open 
and the dogs quiet, misthress, and maybe we’ll be 
seeing the young man.” 

Gently they entered the house like thieves. Irene 
was all a-tremble with excitement at the adventure, 
and the fear in her heart. The stairs creaked below 
their feet, a dog growled, and was silent again at 
Dungannon’s whisper. They came to the door of 
Gavin’s room and looked inside. Huddled in her 
chair was the old woman. Her bright eyes met theirs. 
Irene went forward and stood by the bedside. Gavin 
slept. His face was pale—his arms bare to the elbow, 
his brown throat and chest lay bare. Her pearls were 
at his pillow. 

“You have come for your beads,” said Mairi. 
There was a world of scorn in her bitter whisper. 
Irene drew away and looked incredibly startled. 

“My beads,” said she. “No. Is he better? I-I 
—am a friend of Mr. Douglas.” 

“He’s sleeping, mistress. The doctor made him 
sleep with a pouther. So you’re a friend—he was 
bletherin’ of a wife. What kind of a wife would ye 


118 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


make for Gavin with your wee hands and feet, and 
your rings and laces ? Gavin will take handling that’s 
not in you. ’ ’ 

“I’m very glad the gentleman is better,’’ said 
Irene. “You talk in riddles. Your patient is no 
concern of mine.” 

“Ye’ve ta’en a fine hour tae come an’ tell me that, 
mistress—at the deid o’ night and dacent folk bedded. 
If ye were his wife, I would be leaving you to him— 
poor lad, it’s not much harm that’s left in him—a 
wife would bless me for the chance of easing his head, 
and lifting his arms round her. She would count the 
hours till the daylight, that his eyes would open and 
see her beside him; but it is not in you, wife or not. 
Well, go, mistress. Pate Dol telled me he ca’d a lass 
his wife on the hill—a bonny-like wife without a 
minister. I kent ye the minute that numskull Dun¬ 
gannon put his face in at the door. If ye are his 
wife, there's your place. When he rises and finds you 
have left him, he’ll forget you. He did when he 
was a wean to a doll, and he’ll do it to you, and then 
the world will be bitter in your mouth; for all your 
beauty, you’ll never buy such another.” 

Irene had come to this meeting in a wondrous soft 
mood; her very knees had been trembling, and her 
hands. She had been afraid to trust her voice even, 
and her lips quivered in some new involuntary 
movement all strange to her, yet still delightful, but 
with the old woman’s talk her mood changed. Who 
was this old creature to speak to her, this ridiculous 
old woman with her strange talk of buying? She 
drew herself up proudly, her face dark, her eyes 
smouldering with rage. 

“Look at me, woman,” she whispered, bending a 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


119 


little as she spoke. “Look at me, with your strange 
talk of buying. I think I am not for sale-” 

“It’s likely your bargain is made,” said Mairi 
drily. “ Ye ’ll be sold whatever! ’ ’ 

Can there be jealousy between age and youth, an 
eternal strife—who knows? Mairi’s voice was like 
an east wind for bitterness. 

“You!” said she, in a whisper, with a little snicker 
of laughter, “you to haud Gavin Douglas, to buy 
Gavin Dauglas.” Her hand lifted, she rocked with 
laughter—bitter, low laughing. “You’re the first 
lass he’s ever seen, and he’s new-fangled with you. 
I’ll tell ye, mistress, what ye’ve done—ye’ve spoiled 
a man for other women. As for you,” and she looked 
Irene from head to foot, “as for you, he would not 
have you now in a gift.” 

At that Irene laughed joyously, softly. “I know,” 
she cried, “I know I’ve spoiled him for ever for 
other women; and look, old woman, look, I ’ll spoil 
him some more.” She came to the bedside and bent 
over Gavin gently—ever so gently she slipped her 
white arms under his shoulder. Her eyes were like 
stars, her breast tumultuous. For long she gazed at 
him, her face all smiling and soft, then all a-quiver 
she drew him to her and kissed him on the mouth. 
“Tell him that,” she cried; “tell him when he wakes 
that I came back to him—oh! tell him everything!” 

Dungannon came softly to the bedside, and Mairi s 
eyes never left him. He took a silver frame from his 
pocket, looked at it long, and with a sigh placed it on 
the little table. 

“If ye should ever meet her,” he whispered huskily, 
pointing to the photograph, “tell her I did my best 
endeavours—my best endeavours-” 




120 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


Mairi never spoke a word. Irene looked at the 
smiling face of Janet Erskine in the silver frame and 
smiled on Gavin, and turned and went out softly. 
Dungannon sighed and followed her, his head bowed. 

“God help ye, Patrick,” whispered the old woman 
gently. She watched the two figures walk to the 
shore, and listened to the scrunch of the keel as the 
little row-boat was pulled over the stones. 

“There goes a fine lass,” she whispered, “when 
she grows, and a kindly dreamer of an Irishman; and 
I wish that I had timmed that pouther of the doctor’s 
into the sea, and let Gavin have his head. "Well, my 
lass, I’ll do my best for you; there’s smiddum in ye, 
and ye’re clean to the bone; but if you’re not colonel, 
ye’ll be no sodger, or I’m sair cheated.” 


CHAPTER Y. 

TELLS HOW THE LOCH WAS EMPTY. 

Gavin rose from his bed stiff and weak. “What a 
poor thing is a man,” said he, feeling his knees not 
strong. “A dog would have licked a wound like that 
and trailed himself to a burn to drink, and there 
was I lying like a sick cow in a biss—with covers 
over me too. It is time I was in the sea again. 
He walked to the shore and looked over the bay. 
From point to point the bay was empty. His mouth 
became harder, his lips met more firmly, their corners 
drooping. Suddenly his head went up. “We will 
have a change, I think,’’ said he; “it is banking up 
away there to the su ’thard, ’ ’ and with that he turned 
and came slowly back to the house. 

“Well, Gavin,” cried the doctor, “do your legs 
feel droll at the walking ? ’ ’ 

“They are not very good,” said Gavin. “I think 
I could not sit on a horse.” 

“Your uncle was a great man for a horse,” said 
Douglas. “I wanted to tell you about him the other 
day, but you would not listen.” 

“I was not very well, sir, and I had a queer notion 
in my head at the time. Fire away now, if you 
like.” 


121 


122 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Douglas gave him Sholto’s letter, and Gavin read 
it in silence. 

“I thought that my mother was dead,” said he; 
and then, “I would like to see these horses that 
Sholto Douglas is telling of in that letter. It is a 
wee place this rock to live in—a man should be 
doing things.’’ 

“The fool’s eyes are on the end of the earth,” 
said the doctor drily. 

“He will not he a fool if he takes his body to the 
ends of the earth. He will know things and see 
things. I think it would be wise to be such a fool.” 
Gavin rose and left the room. 

“The ploy’s finished,” said Campbell. “The play 
begins.” 

Gavin made his way to the kitchen. Mairi was 
baking. 

“I’ll give ye a wee bit of dough, and ye’ll make 
wee scones beside me here, the way that ye used to 
when ye were wee.” 

“I’ve been making wee scones ower long, Mairi,” 
says Gavin; “are ye fond of beads?” 

“I never had a bead in my life except maybe 
for a day at Brodick Fair. My neck is not 
for beads now, for it’s as yellow as a duck’s 
foot.” 

“You’re neck is beautiful for beads. There’s seven 
of them, and that’s a lucky number, being the years 
that Jacob served for Rachel.” 

“And got Leah,” says Mairi. “I never saw much 
luck in that,” and she turned her griddle. “D’ye 
ken what I would do if I was you, Gavin ? ’ ’ says the 
old one. 

“No, I do not.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


123 


“I would go and launch a boat and row ower to 
the village, and tak’ a look aboot.” 

“And what would I see?” 

“Weemen,” said Mairi, and closed her mouth like 
a little trap. 

“Umph! I canna speak to women.” 

“There’s naething hates a trial—an’ ye’re a 
leear as weel. The night ye were not well and 
me sitting beside ye—ye were bletherin’ about 
a lass that ye found, and ye were telling the 
truth. ’ ’ 

“It was a droll notion I had. The doctor cured 
it with a night’s sleep.” 

“Did he? Ye’ll maybe explain why a lady—to 
give her her due—cam’ creeping to your room at 
Guid kens the time, and that Dungannon wi’ her— 
a bold besom she was!” 

“What?” 

“Aye, whit!—this droll notion o’ yours—a strum¬ 
pet I’m’doubtin’, Gavin, from her behaviour—clean 
scandalous! I’ll haud nae tongue, seeing ye never 
kent her, but I’m telling ye I had all I could do to 
keep her in her place. She would have turned me 
out of your room, if she had had the pith to do it. 
‘Tell him I came back,’ she says, as bold as brass. 
‘For your beads?’ says I. She let on she clean 
forgot the beads, and the goings on after that was 
not dacent.” 

“A fine make-up,” said Gavin. “Ye must have 
led Pate Dol a fine dance in your day.” 

“I only tried that wance, Gavin dear, and Pate 
danced so bonny I near lost him; but you’re well rid 
o’ yon lass—a wee bit black-lookin’ body that gied 
hersel’ the airs o’ a six-fitter.” 


124 GAVIN DOUGLAS 

“Pate Dol is a clype,” said Gavin. “I’m bye wi’ 
him.” 

“No, nor clype,” cried the old woman, her face 
flaming red; “no’ even when I showed him your ain 
wee pistol on the hook did he tell me who shot ye. 
I saw her in the wee varnished boat wi’ Dungannon, 
through the spyglass; and I’ll tell ye mair, Gavin 
Douglas, that’s bye wi’ my man—I’ll tell ye this— 
this leddy that cam’ gaddin’ into a man’s room took 
one of her beads. She thought maybe ye could sell 
the rest, as a kind o’ payment for the hurt she gien 
ye—now count the beads.” There were only six. 

The ghost of a smile came on the boy’s face. “She 
was very kind, Mairi. I am sorry I doubted Pate,” 
and he turned and walked away. 

Mairi stood for a moment—her temper had beaten 
her. “I could not throle to have Pate miscalled,” 
she whispered. “I was trying to mak’ him turn to 
the lass. I was making her out a fine, brave, daunt¬ 
less lass till he said he was bye wi’ Pate.” 

Suddenly she hurried after her hero. 

“Gavin, Gavin” she cried. “I lied to ye, Gavin. 
Ye’ll not heed an aul’ wife’s havers. She took it for 
a keepsake.” 

“Are ye all liars, then?” said Gavin, and left her 
standing. 

The White Lady was heading south. Already the 
sun seemed nearer, seemed more friendly. The white 
deck was pleasantly warm, the cool sea was a fine 
think to be looking at. Irene sat in a long deck¬ 
chair and mused with closed eyes, one brown hand 
at her throat, twisting and turning a thin little 
chain. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


125 


* ‘Where did you get that pearl?” said her father. 
“I don’t remember that one.” 

“It came from an oyster,” said his daughter, “and 
the oyster was awful close. ’ ’ 

“Does it never speak at all?” said Savage, with 
a lazy smile. 

“Sometimes, oh yes, sometimes. It doesn’t speak, 
but it whispers—in the dark.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


TELLS HOW GAVIN’S MOTHER CAME FROM THE 
WILDERNESS. 

“There was something came ower me that night,” 
Mairi Voullie Vhor would say afterwards; “maybe 
it would be wi’ lying ma lane, for Pate went to Lane- 
rick wi’ the lambs. Whatever it was, I never closed 
an eye. Gavin had a cahr on his face—not a sneer, 
but the mark of a sneer,—and his father was in the 
doldrums, and the doctor had not a word to say 
about his gairden, or a friendly curse for the dog, 
and that is a bad sign. Well, I swithered long and 
long, until the day was beginning to grey in the east, 
and then I rose and tidied my hair and put my 
things on me. Good or bad, the house was too much 
for wan old woman. 

“It was many a year since I had row’d in a wee 
boat, and there was oftener dough than blisters on 
my hands. Mind you, a lass wi’ a blistered hand is 
gey often a fine lass at something, but I sprauchled 
into the punt and took the oars. There was a little 
haze, with east wind, and the jelly-fish floating. It’s 
whiles awesome to be alone in a wee boat in the half- 
light, for a body never kens what the sea is thinking; 
but I just rowed and rowed till she slithered in 
126 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


127 


through the long wrack on the shore below the Wilder¬ 
ness, and I put the graplin’ over her bows and left 
her, and went up the fine white walk. I’ve mind 
there were bees among the blossoms, and the apples 
were a good size in the wee trees. 

‘‘Half-way to the door, all the fine things I had 
been considering to say left me, and I was weak with 
nerves, but I would go to no back-door. I had aye 
enough pride to keep me out of the gutter, and I 
pulled the bell. The noise went clangin’ and janglin’ 
through the house, and I leaned against the door¬ 
post. 

“A window was opened above me, and I saw a 
woman’s bonny face. Mind you, in the morning that 
is not common with folk that have to be working. 

“‘I will be down in a moment,’ said the lady; 
‘ rest you on the seat, ’—and it is droll I never saw the 
seat till then, although I can mind the pattern of 
the wallpaper through the window, and the droll 
shape o’ the Rock. 

“She came out to me in a little, with a wonderful 
lot of good clothes on her. 

“ ‘Is it father or son?’ said she in a low voice, 
and calmly. 

“ ‘Your son is shot/ said I, and she ga’ed a stotter 
and a whimper, and I got her slithered on to the 
seat; but no, she came to her feet. 

“‘Take me to him,’ she says, ‘take me to my 
little boy,’ and her face twisted and twisted, and 
her chin moved like a wean’s. 

“She took the after oar and me the bow, and 
now and then her shoulders would be giving a jerk 
that wasna wi’ the rowing. Once she turned to see 
the road, and her face was a’ begratten, and my heart 


128 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


went out to the woman when she took a stroke wi’ 
her sleeve at her eyes, and rowed on, for I aye liked, 
bravery in a woman. 

“ James Douglas met us at the landing-place. 

“The lady threw down the oar and sprang into 
his arms. 

“ ‘Oh, Jimmie/ she cried, ‘what’s wrong with the 
baby ? ’—and as for me, I missed my foot and fell into 
the water and skinned my knee, but they never 
noticed that, or it’s likely they might have given me 
a hand ashore. I was as good as them anyway. 
Now, it is usual that when folk are happy without 
knowing it that they will forget their meat, but 
when the happiness grows until they become aware 
of it, they will sit down and eat and drink, trying 
to prolong their pleasure. Well, well, I put a wet 
rag on my knee and made a breakfast and set the 
table, but there came nobody to eat. But in a while 
the doctor came to the kitchen. 

“ ‘This is a great day/ said he; ‘this is one of 
the greatest days that ever you will see. Come with 
me, and you will be seeing why.’ So he led me by 
the arm into the room, and there was the lady sitting 
with her man on the one side of her, and her son on 
the other. 

‘ ‘ She had a wonderful quick way with her, and she 
took me by the hands, laughin’ and greetin’. 

“ ‘Thank you/ said she, ‘for looking after these 
men of mine, ’ and she turned and smiled to her man, 
as if she was saying, ‘Do you hear that?’—and James 
Douglas had a hair fankled in a jacket button; but 
it was Gavin’s face I did not like, for it was hard as 
a millstone. There was nothing that you could see 
if you did not know him. He would smile so genteel 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


129 


and let his mother take his hand, and whiles indeed 
there was a kind of wonder in his eyes, hut I kent 
he was tired of all the laughing and excitement. He 
was so polite—so polite I could have skelped him 
for it. 

“ Janet Erskine had Sholto Douglas’s letter in her 
hand. ‘Poor brave Sholto,’ she would say; ‘there 
he was, Jimmie, eating his heart out for a word 
from his ain folk, and forced to hide and creep in the 
darkness, without a word to you. You would not 
have had me betray my man’s brother even to keep 
my man, and you had always droll hard notions of 
duty. And maybe, Jimmie, I was a little hurt that 
you were so cold and hard, and so ready to think ill 
of me. Sometimes I’ve thought I was not very kind, 
or wise, in those far-away days, but I never lost hope. 
I had always hope like an anchor to cling to.’ 

“Gavin looked like a man that is showing his good 
manners, the kind of good manners that a well- 
brought-up man will show to a guest that is not very 
welcome. The mother turned to him, and, ‘Did the 
armour fit you?’ said she. ‘You are such a great 
fellow. I thought perhaps it would be too late.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ says Gavin, ‘oh yes, it was very beautiful 
armour, but I think it was too late by three hundred 
years. I have been very daft, I think.’ 

“ ‘No, no, dear, the world has need of knights— 

knights and real chivalry.’ 

“ ‘I think that it will only be in books that these 
things are likeable; in everyday life it seems that it 
is a childish prank and daft.’ There was bitter scorn 
in Gavin’s voice. 

“Janet Erskine rose. ‘It is time to be going 
now, James,’—her voice trembled,—‘will you row me 


130 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


across ?’ She came to her son and put her arms 
round him, and stood waiting, and looking with all 
her heart in her eyes. 

w “ ‘Kiss me, dear/ she said; ‘kiss me, Gavin/ 

“Gavin’s face became white. ‘I never learned 
kissing/ said he.” 

In the little boat Douglas was elated, like a boy 
with his first sweetheart. The sea was very beautiful, 
the little fluffy bits of thistledown floating on the 
water, a thing to give pleasure—a bee heavily laden, 
landed on his oar-blade, and he carefuly rescued it 
and put it in a sunny corner on the thwart to dry its 
wings. His wife sat silent in the stern. 

“James,” she whispered, “will we—are we-” 

her hands clasped, “are we to start all over again?” 

“No, dear,” said Douglas. “Can you let me make 
you forget that this has ever happened—let me join 
up our lives again with so much of happiness, and 
peace, and trust, that these bad years will be for¬ 
gotten? I thought, Janet, if I came to you, with 
your boy and mine, that you might forgive me for 
his sake.” 

“Oh, Jimmie, for your own sake. I have remem¬ 
bered all the good days we ever had—the years of 
good days—in the hills, on the seas; and that’s how 
I remembered you always, Jimmie dear—for your 
own sake—for I am afraid of Gavin. You were never 
hard, and cold, and stern, like Gavin, never for long. ’ ’ 

“I think Gavin has your ways, Janet. He is 
steady; as Pate says, ‘he keeps the furrow.’ But 
if you will come back to me, we can put brightness, 
and beauty, and softness, into his life.” 

Janet Erskine smiled and blushed. 



GAVIN DOUGLAS 


131 


“We’ll have another wedding and a secret honey¬ 
moon, Jimmie, away from every one, just my own 
Jimmie back again. Do you know, I’ve whispered 
that to you every night, for long and long, after the 
first anger left me ? I whispered that, and kissed the 
place where your ring would go again, every night, 
Jimmie.” 

“We’ll let Gavin have a year to himself. Maybe 
he would like to take classes, or agricultural lectures, 
or travel, and Dr. Campbell can take all his books 
and his microscope, and his slides and bugs, to the 
Wilderness. ...” So these two rattled on, Douglas 
rowing very slowly. There were all sorts of things 
to be settled. 

Dr. Campbell and Gavin watched the skiff row away 
from the Rock, into the sunlight on the water. The 
doctor was smoking, and waved his hand to the 
little boat. 

“It’s droll,” says he, “the way a boat will come 
to port after a long voyage and many storms and 
worse calms.” 

He turned to Gavin. “And here you are on fire 
to be away on your first voyage. Well, come into the 
house and we’ll talk.” 

The two men walked slowly, Gavin towering above 
the doctor, whose hand was on his arm. 

“Aye,” said he again, “on fire to be away. Man, 
can you not think a little of your mother? Your 
father gave her a wheen sleepless nights. Mind you, 
I can see his point too; and now, when things have 
righted themselves, when the boat is in port, and 
your mother thinking of pleasant days with her man 
and her son, off you must go. The Rock is not big 


132 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


enough for you; the horses and the kye are just 
beasts in wee parks wi’ stane dykes round them; 
the sheep are silly beasts with liver-fluke and foot- 
rot, and the very potatoes are mere food. Well, 
well, and what will ye do?” 

“ Should I not have been trained to do some¬ 
thing?” said Gavin. “I could take a fee on a farm.” 

1 ‘ Take a devil!” cried the doctor; “much good 
ye would do on a farm. Make a mess of your hands 
for another man, and likely a worse mess if the man 
had women about the place. Keep you out of the 
red earth—if ye mean to travel—and travel alone if 
ye mean to get anywhere. 

“Well, Gavin, there’s few fathers can talk to their 
sons, but I’ll talk to you, and you will be diligent 
and remember. There are few things worth having 
in this world, but one of them is the memory of 
having made folk happy, and, man, it’s easy. There’s 
nothing so good for the inside of a man as the out¬ 
side of a horse. I’ma doctor, and I know. I’ve taught 
ye to drink like a gentleman, but mind, through all 
your life drink slow—drink damn slow. You’ll find 
the wisdom in that yet. A drunk man is always 
tumbling into a hole somewhere, and mind, it’s often 
the best and the most likeable that get drunk. As 
for women, boy, there’s overmuch made of women 
nowadays—just be nice and respectful. There’s no 
use for me to be telling you—your mother would 
have done it better. I made a fool of myself, and 
was none the worse. These are just off-hand remarks, 
my boy. The one thing necessary in this world is 
money. Money covers a multitude of sins and buys a 
multitude of virtues. A man’s worth is the worth of 
his bank account. You can get everything in the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


133 


world—if ye have money enough—but contentment, 
and for contentment try digging with a spade—unless 
you are ill. Remember that it’s a doctor’s business 
to cure ailments. You would not ask a tailor to 
shoe your horse, and a doctor should be like a wary 
pilot at the helm, scanning the grey seas, knowing 
the reefs and the quicksands; through spindrift and 
hail, his hand is on the tiller, until he bring the bat¬ 
tered barque of humanity into the desired haven of 
health.” 

The doctor paused a little as if for the expected 
applause, and then- 

“But to come back to the money: ye’ll not go 
like a tinker at all events, for there’s none to come 
after me, and my will is made lang syne, and there’s 
been money lying in the bank for you since you 
learned to thin turnips and put wooden legs on hens. 
Some of it was mine and some of it your father’s, 
and now it’s yours. Don’t send it an ill gait, Gavin, 
for many a careful body gave it to us, on matters o 
life and limb. Hooch, don’t begin with your thanks. 
Am I not paid this many years just looking at ye 
growing straight like a tree? Take a turn abroad; 
take classes here and there in the Universities; aye 
be learning something till ye ken that folk are weary¬ 
ing to see ye hame. God bless ye, my boy. I have 
not talked so much since I harangued a clinique of 
boys,” and the doctor blew his nose and cursed a 
dog vigorously. 

To Douglas—busy with his plans for the future, 
the future that was to obliterate the lost years 
came his friend. 

“So you and Janet have made it up, it seems. 



134 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Well, Mairi will be the happy woman, for she was 
just the means under God (to quote herself) of bring¬ 
ing this about. Ye’ll not forget her, I hope.” 

* 4 Would I be like to forget the old woman that 
looked after Gavin so well! Janet says-” 

“Oh, Gavin! It’s news to me that Mairi looked 
after him; it would have been better an she had. 
Man, Gavin is for off.” 

“Off where, Ludovic?” 

“Och, just off to see the world for himself. He’s 
well fitted for the ways o’ the world. We should 
ken, for we trained him. Man, where’s Gavin’s place 
here? D’ye think Gavin will be coddled by his 
mother? It’s a wonder, and a grace in him, that he 
doesn’t girn at her.” 

“I’ll forbid him to go,” said Douglas. 

“Is it there ye are, man? I kent ye would be at 
the ordering and forbidding, and all ye would get is 
that you would make him surly. Let him go. There’s 
more than his mother in his head. He’s sense enough 
and money enough and man enough; let him reenge 
till he’s tried, and then he’ll come back. And as 
for telling his mother, I think she kent when she 
saw him. Let you Janet Erskine alone to handle 
your son. She has experience, ye see, of your folk 
that you never kent until lately.” 



CHAPTER VII. 


TELLS HOW GAVIN LEAVES THE ROCK. 

It is not an easy thing for a young man to leave his 
home for the first time—inanimate objects assume 
living attributes; trees look sad, bare rocks forlorn, 
the very fields take on a new friendliness. Then there 
are clothes to be measured and fitted and pinned and 
stitched. Shirts must be marked (as though a man 
would not know his own shirt), socks and collars and 
handkerchiefs become newly important. Women 
revel in this business of packing and stowing. Mairi 
was for days in a litter of tissue-paper. 

Much good advice she gave to Gavin, pausing in the 
act of folding away some valued article of apparel. 
She was oftenest on the subject of her own sex. 

“Do not you be setting overmuch store on any 
single lass, and for mercy’s sake, give the married 
ones a wide berth. I’m tellin’ ye, Gavin, I’m feart 
when I think o’ ye. It must be a sair trade to be a 
mother of lusty sons. ’ ’ And again, on other days, she 
would be on the other tack. “I would not just like 
you to see them greetin’ if a little touslin’ would set 
them right. Take your fun, my lad, an’ keep quate 
aboot it, but don’t think of merryin’.” 

“I’m sure,” says Gavin, “you’re worrying your- 
135 


136 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


self about nothing. There ’s millions of men besides 
me in the world.’’ 

“There’s never millions o’ men, Gavin, with a 
woman. It’s like fishing—wan at a time, and the 
million does not count. Don’t you be anybody’s 
special. Take your pleasures with the crowd.” 

When the clothes were packed at last, the activities 
of Mairi took a new turn. Now she must feed him 
extraordinarily well. He must take switched eggs 
and milk at unchancy times in the forenoon and 
afternoon; he must take beef-tea, or hough soup, as 
though he were being fattened for a show. 

“There’s a lot of devilment in an egg, Gavin, and 
a man without devilment is as wersh as water.” 

Gavin spent long days in the Look-out, stowing 
carefully his old-time treasures, cementing crannies, 
cleaning the drains, making all weather-proof. He 
carved his name deeply in the rough bench-like table, 
and looking at his work, “You’ll be there till I come 
back,” said he, and came away feeling very down¬ 
cast. He looked at the calves, and wondered how 
many calves they should beget before he returned, 
like M’Crimmin of Skye. But his mind was stead¬ 
fast. He would go to the East, where his uncle had 
found work and peace. It might be that his uncle 
still lived. Well, he would go to Alexandria, for 
that had been the postmark, and he would say noth¬ 
ing to his father, or Ludovic Campbell, or his mother. 
It might be that he should find work that he could 
do among horses and fighting clans—work that would 
make him forget that he had been a fool, that the 
very dogs would laugh at, did they but know. But 
the dogs were fond of slinking at heel instead of 
reenging on ahead, waiting for a whistle or a wave 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


137 


of the arm to “Kep that” or “Come away with 
that.” And the East was away and away from 
America. He hated the name of the great Republic 
—a burning shame kept him from thinking of Irene. 
He flung the thought of her from his mind and 
turned his back on it—that he should plead for any 
woman’s kisses, that he should suffer because a 
woman lied to him. “Let her go,” he snarled to 
himself; “am I not a man to be doing things and 
forgetting that ever I spoke to her?” In the night 
he could see her again, feel again the little soft moving 
of her lips under his, and old Mairi would whiles 
wonder what made her boy restless in his sleep, 
for his very body strained back from these midnight 
caressings. She would rise slowly in the dark and 
light a candle, and come to his room, the strings of 
her nightcap untied, her hand that held the brass 
candlestick shaking, her eyes peering over the light, 
her face in half-shadow, the firm mouth and strong 
chin made manifest. 

She had a red coverlet round her, and looked very 
old and fierce, like a mother in the tribes, Gavin 
thought on waking. 

“A bonny to-do—to lose sleep for a het-tempered 
lass,” she whispered. “Man, where^ your pride? 
A plooman’s son could gie ye lessons. 

“In drawing a straight furrow,” says Gavin. 

“Aye, a straucht fur against the hill. Man, it 
was only your pride was hurted, Gavin, a nesty can¬ 
kerous thing to heal— pride—but time’ll do it. Did 
she shoot ye before or after ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t know.” 

“Do ye ken, Mr. Douglas, what for she shot ye? 

“She did not want me.” 


138 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“She would be the wan to ken that, but what did 
she not want aboot ye?” 

“She did not want me to kiss her.” 

“Tae kiss her! Ye blockhead! She never shot 
ye for kissin’ her. If a’ this bother has been ower a 
kiss, I’m for my bed. I would as soon quarrel about 
a poke o’ sweeties. I though in my innocence ye 
had meddled wi’ the lass. A kiss! Humph! It 
minds me o’ the shot the Dutchman fired at the 
diamond on the Craigan Laig.” 

“What was it?” said Gavin. 

“Ye ken the Craigan Laig up there past the 
Rhu’bhan?” 

“Fine,” said Gavin, glad of any respite from that 
violent tongue. 

“Well, there was once a big diamond glittered at 
night on the face o’ the Rock, and the glow of it so 
bright that the folk at the Point could shear their 
corn in the light of it. That was their words—‘shear 
their corn in the light of it,’—and many’s the body 
tried to get the diamond, but in daylight they would 
never find it, till a Dutchman lying at anchor in the 
bay played crack at it wi’ a chalk bullet and marked 
the place, and sailed away with the diamond to 
Amsterdam.” 

“That would be why they called the Rock ‘the 
Isle of the flame ’, ’ ’ said Gavin, laughing. 

“Maybe, but I was not just telling ye history in 
my bare feet either. Yon lass did want ye, my lad, 
or what gar’d her come to your bedside in the deid o’ 
the night—tell me that, and her shot was just the 
Dutchman’s chalk bullet to mark you. She’ll sail 
away with you yet,” and the red-robed old lady left 
him. But that was the overcome of it after that. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


139 


“Yon clipper will sail away with you yet, Gavin 
Douglas. Aye keep your weather eye open, and 
you’ll see who will be right.” 

Whatever Douglas or Campbell may have sus¬ 
pected, Gavin never heard. His lie held. He 
had had an accident, and Dungannon had left as he 
would leave everything he set his hand to, grasping 
the shadow for the substance, and being pleasant to 
all men till the end of the chapter. He had shipped 
on the white yacht, bound across the Western ocean, 
and there was an end of him, for Mairi had never 
told of that midnight watching to any one save Pate 
Dol. But Janet Erskine had her photograph again, 
and often when her glance lighted on the silver 
frame, she could spare a smile for poor Dungannon. 
Gavin would be often with his mother, but there was 
a restraint between them, a shyness on the son’s 
part and a pride on the mother’s. She would not 
force his love. She taught him botany, telling him 
the why and the wherefore of the grasses, the action 
of lime on bacteria, the secret at the root of the 
clover; common everyday knowledge she clothed in 
wonderful words, making a little miracle out of a 
little chemistry. There was a daintiness about her, a 
fastidiousness that attracted Gavin; hut his training 
had left him bitter, for although the twenty years of 
contempt for women had gone by the hoard at the 
first encounter, yet afterwards the feeling returned a 
hundredfold and hardened. Little did he know the 
long hours that his mother spent in thought and in 
silent communings, smiling her patient proud smile, 
but James Douglas saw and writhed. Truly he was 
beaten with his own stripes like the anchorite of old. 
He wished to be happy, that Janet should be happy, 


140 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


yet twenty years of silence and stern teaching warred 
against it. Gavin would throw off the unnatural 
veneer in time, in the big world of men, but time is an 
ill present to give a woman, who has been starved 
of love in the past. Douglas and Janet were to be 
married again, and it says much for Ludovic Camp¬ 
bell that his smile had no malice. 

It was a wet day, a calm wet day, that Gavin bade 
good-bye to the Rock. They were all very merry, 
talking like all that and laughing at very poor jokes, 
until it was time to set the sail in the skiff and watch 
the Rock recede into its hazy rain mist. Then Gavin 
knew how well he loved that place, how dear to him 
were the very stunted birch-trees, and the waves 
that broke on the shores of it. A tremendous longing 
assailed him to go hack, to work on the hill, to toil 
in the fields, to come in hungry and sit in his accus¬ 
tomed place, to talk to that gracious lady who was 
his mother, and the cultured old gentleman, the 
doctor, whose rough exterior concealed a heart brim¬ 
ming over with affection, to be a son to his father. 
He felt that he was doing a weak thing to be leaving 
because a girl had hurt his pride. Why had he 
not laughed, instead of playing at heroics ? Suddenly 
he thought again of his mother, that smiling gentle 
creature who could suffer and smile for twenty years, 
knowing herself wronged, yet not parading her grief, 
or holding herself up as a mirror of resignation under 
affliction. 

But there came other thoughts crowding in. If 
it were wrong to leave, surely it would be childish 
to go back. He was a man now; the world was 
calling. He would come back, having proved him- 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


141 


self—at what he cared not, only that he must return 
with flags flying on a sunshiny day, when people 
would be proud of him. 

He looked at Pate—old, weather-beaten, his eye 
keen as ever looking under the sail, his old hard hand 
on the tiller. 

“Ye are in good time, Gavin, my boy,” said Pate, 
at the steamer's gangway. “Ye’ll excuse me hurry¬ 
ing back. The mistress, Mairi Voullie Vhor, is not 
so very well the day.” He came closer to Gavin 
and whispered, “Mind the click-ma-doodles, ” and 
hurried from the pier, and Gavin saw that he was 
old and bent, that his hands were listless, and his 
grey hair rain-sodden. 

In the train he sat alone in a compartment, that 
had rice and confetti on the floor, and a peculiar 
odour of scent. He never smelt patchouli afterwards 
but he felt vaguely sad. It was autumn; the year 
was dying, and he was away from the folk that he 
knew. He had his baggage taken to his hotel, and 
wondered if he were doing everything quietly, as the 
doctor would have him. 

Later he found a door labelled “Writing Room,” 
and entered a large carpeted room, where men seemed 
very busy writing endless letters. He wrote to his 
father, a long long letter, with all his sadness in it, 
then rereading it, called himself a baby, and tore it 
into shreds. But he felt better, and wired that he had 
arrived all right, and went in search of food. The 
streets were thronged with passengers hurrying God 
knows whither, and they were cheerful. 

In bed that night he lay wide-awake, listening to 
the loud hissings and powerful snortings of the trains 
that seemed to run all night. Next door to him, a 


142 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


young wife talked merrily to her husband. They had 
come from a theatre, and she seemed elated with her 
evening. Gavin thought it droll to hear their voices 
and laughter. They would know to keep out of each 
other’s way like ferrets in a box. He discovered a 
new fact about the wallpaper on his bedroom wall. 
Gazing steadily at the little festoons of roses arranged 
in lines like a draughtboard, he saw suddenly that 
a girl’s face was peering from among the rosebuds: 
from every little festoon the same face peered at him. 
Nay, indeed, the roses themselves formed curling 
hair and big wide eyes. He tried to change the 
features, but always one face smiled down at him, 
and in his heart he knew the face. 

In the morning, in the cold clear light, there were 
no little faces, but only festoons of blue roses, and 
not very like roses either. That day Gavin went to 
the market, wandering from pen to pen, appraising 
the value of sheep, noting a good horse, many good 
horses, wondering at the farmers and where their 
homes would be. He could tell the type of man that 
would have binders and tractors. There was some¬ 
thing about the set of their overcoats, and their hats, 
and their boots. He amused himself putting names 
on outstanding figures, the names they might have 
had, had they lived four hundred years ago. In the 
afternoon he walked in the streets, pleased with the 
hurrying crowds. For a long time he stood watching 
a repair gang resetting a roadway. It was a fine 
thing to know how a road should be made, that it 
might last, that troops might march on it, and mer¬ 
chandise be conveyed on it (on great two-horsed 
lorries), that water might not lodge on it. He 
heard the tongues of the men that worked with the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


143 


picks and the crowbars. He saw the hard faces of 
them, and the great tar-stained hands. The picks 
struck rhythmically almost, and a rhyme formed in 
his brain, standing there looking— 

“Pick, pick, picking up a living, 

To be throwing down a drink; 

Sending this week’s wages after last . . .” 

And he always remembered one of the navvies 
straightening his back, and rubbing the back of his 
hand over his mouth, “1 cud be doing wid a big 
dhirty pint.” He remembered the laughing voice 
of the man. 

The docks also were a new playground for Gavin. 
He spent days looking from the quay-wall at the trim 
little schooners; the very James and Annie, that he 
knew well, was discharging. Her figurehead was 
grimy. The face had a sickly look, as though the very 
soul of the ship was a-weary for the cold spray lash¬ 
ing. He laughed to think that his hand had rested 
on the very cut-water, for he had swum round her 
often in the bay. He felt friendship and warmness 
for the little ship. A great four-masted sailing-ship 
held him spellbound. There was a boy seated on the 
end of the royal yard, his feet dangling in space, and 
dirty seagulls, that fed on broken crusts from tene¬ 
ments, flying under him. The great liners, that suf¬ 
fered in a good humour the fussing of towboats at 
bow and stern, the staunch coasters slipping down¬ 
river in the evenings, all were a joy to him. He 
would have loved to ship on board a great ship and 
live for himself the sea tales of Dungannon. 

He booked a passage to Egypt, admiring much 


144 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


the polished counters of the shipping-office and the 
fine models of fine ships placed here and there. Well- 
dressed clerks, immaculately collared and groomed, 
wrote and blotted, and wrote and blotted, with a 
grave and important air, as though there were no 
sea and no ships, no hills and no fields, no fish to 
catch, and no horses to ride, in a great wide world 
outside. 

“I think God never meant men to stand under a 
lamp all day, with a ledger to write in,’ ’ said he, for¬ 
getting that there was love and women, music and 
children, and gardening and football, when the offices 
were closed. 

Then on another day he boarded a train and 
travelled to the little church where the good Lord 
James sleeps in his own place, among his kin¬ 
dred. He stood long beside the sarcophagus that 
holds all that remains of the fiery Douglas. 

“First in the love of woman, 

First in the field of fight, 

First in the death that a man should die— 

Such is the Douglas right.” 

His very blood leapt to the pride of it. He felt ready 
for great deeds. . . . 

For a man that had been reared on an island, un¬ 
acquainted with many things familiar to the weans 
of cities, Gavin had done well. He had neither blown 
out the gas, nor run helter-skelter across a street, in 
front of tram-cars. He had neither overtipped ser¬ 
vants, nor displayed gaucherie in a crowded dining¬ 
room. 

Yet he was glad when the day came to sail, enjoy- 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


145 


ing the hurry and the noise of hammers in the ship¬ 
yards, where men were toiling. 

In the dark he sailed past the Rock, and long he 
gazed at it. The revolving light on the lighthouse 
was sweeping round the hill and on out to sea. 

“That is my life,’ ? said Gavin; “a wee while on 
the hill, and then away and away.” 





































BOOK III. 















CHAPTER I. 


TELLS HOW GAVIN MET LA BELLE GRECQUE. 

Gavin made few friends among his fellow-passengers. 

He would listen to the tales of the quartermasters, 
and the strange tales of wizened sailor-men, with the 
names of long-ago sailing-ships on their tongues lov¬ 
ingly, and the prowess of fast clippers pictured in 
their speech, proudly. He sat in the sun and mar¬ 
velled at the blueness of the Mediterranean, marvelled 
that the spray from the bows should break in milky 
whiteness. 

Long he gazed at far white towers, and peopled 
them with Saracen and Moor, or the swarthy cut¬ 
throat crews of pirate sloops. At Alexandria his 
search for adventure would commence in earnest. 
And yet when he left the ship, that town looked 
unpromising enough, for the daylight in an Eastern 
city is not so good. Then one sees the filth and 
squalor, the clouds of flies, swarming and buzzing 
in the shop of the meat-seller, the flies clotted in the 
corners of the eyes of the children in the street. One 
sees the men concerned in business hurrying like daft- 
like boys, and knowing, seemingly, all the other 
hurrying figures, stopping to jest and hurrying on. 
But in the night-time with lights everywhere, lights 
and music and laughter; the night that throws a 
149 


150 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


glamour over the East, like a dark veil a-glitter with 
sequins, the night of mysterious noises, then is the 
time to see the East the first time—for remembering. 
There will be dim figures on balconies, and low voices 
above one in the street. There will be horses trotting 
past, with strange veiled occupants in little carriages. 
Then is the time for imagination to run riot. To 
Gavin, fresh from the steamer, it was enough to sit 
and watch the dignified figures pass before him, to 
hear the strangeness of new tongues, to wonder at 
the life behind the shuttered windows. He had 
watched for long the scurrying and running of droll 
singing lumpers who coaled the ships; a breathless 
haste seemed to consume them, and yet they found 
time and breath to sing a strange chant, and moved 
like moving ants in the dark. Boys had dived for 
coins, rising from the deep with money in their 
mouths and grime of coal-dust on their shoulders. 
Police-boats, with white-uniformed police, gave chase, 
to the amusement of passengers and divers alike. 

Gavin remembered the advice of Ludovic, his uncle, 
and chose the best hotel. Here were all manner 
of folk speaking many tongues: Frenchmen, vivacious 
and full of gesture; Jews engrossed in some secret 
business of money-getting; Greeks who looked like 
shop-helpers, and dressed like broken actors. Their 
boots were not proper boots, and looked like paper— 
which indeed they probably were. Here and there 
were groups of sedate folk that were British, dressed 
in tussore silk, loose and yet well-fitting. They 
laughed after low whisperings, laughed with that 
heartiness that sailors and wanderers have. 

Seated over from Gavin, alone, sat the most in¬ 
teresting of all—an Arab sheikh possibly. His eyes, 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


151 


black and cold, glanced always tbis way and that. 
There was an air of cool insolence about him. Gavin’s 
gorge rose at the man. 

< 1 This is to be a boy,” said he, and yet felt a burn¬ 
ing anger within him at the very sureness of the man. 
He seemed not conscious that servants attended him, 
deft and soft-footed, and yet, when in fear one of 
them clattered a tray noisily, such a cold overbear¬ 
ing glance came into the sheikh’s eyes, that the serv¬ 
ant shivered, his mouth opened, his knees trembled 
within his long cloth robe. With the coming of coffee, 
the Arab leaned back and smoked, and often his 
eyes were on Gavin—a quick measuring glance that 
shifted before the Scot’s. “We are like two dogs at 
a fair,” thought Gavin, ‘ 4 snarling and circling and 
not fighting; but I think I could hate that man,” 
and then, seemingly, he forgot him. 

Behind him were lights and mirrors and the music 
of dancing. There were little coteries of folk, happy 
folk who laughed easily, 4 ‘folk,” thought Gavin, 
“homing like pigeons to the northland, from the 
far East—from the lands afar.” Ever and anon 
came the brash of curling waves breaking in 
foam. There was a fresh breeze and the scent of 
roses in it. Gavin sat watching, not seeming to 
notice, and yet retaining every new thing and strange 
that he saw. There were swarthy, sturdy vendors of 
canes, with a night to spend seemingly, over the sale 
of one switch. Sellers of sweetmeats wandered past, 
and grown men who jnggled and brought forth 
chickens from the pockets of respectable people, with 
no knowledge of poultry-rearing. With great laughter 
and much wild shouting there went past speedily a 
bridal party, a long string of little carriages bedecked 


152 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


with small lamps in many colours, a circle of little 
lights being about the withers of the leading pair. 
There was a musical clashing of little bells. In the 
first carirage, under the blaze of light, there would be 
a little veiled figure, shrinking belike into her corner 
and taking quick secret glances at her companion. 
Henna-stained her palms would be and her heart a 
turmoil. Away onwards went the little leaf from the 
* Arabian Nights,’ the mean little lights making a 
brave show. Pedestrians laughed, showing white 
square teeth, and none wondered if under the collars 
there were raw wounds, or why a little horse went 
lamely, nodding his head with every step, in the way 
of horses. 

Unnoticed, a figure was on his knees at Gavin’s 
side. He felt his hand touched, and looked down 
at two pleading black eyes and that smile of a cowed 
nature, craving pity and indulgence. 

Gavin shook his head. 

“Go away,” said he, “and ply your trade on 
women or weans. ’ ’ 

“I will tell the future to the great one,' without 
the hand, without the cards, without the crystal. 
He has come from the sea—always the sea break near 
him, and ships are friends, ships and horses and many 
games, and only one woman. Give me the hand 
now, Sar.” 

“Run away man—go,” said Gavin, “and here’s 
for your lucky guess,” said he, and gave the cowering 
figure a silver shilling. But the Arab was persistent. 
“Another come,” said he, “another woman come— 
maybe to-night—I take mister see ladies dance—I 
very good guide too—mister take me-” 

“Perhaps you would care to have me for a guide.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


153 


It was the sheikh who spoke. He spat a word at 
the crouching fortune-teller, and the humble seer 
slunk away, with many 1 ‘ Effendis. ’ ’ 

“I do not come here often/’ continued the Arab, 
smiling, “and less often have I been a guide, yet if 

monsieur would care-” He waved his hand in 

an eloquent gesture. Gavin noted the smallness of 
the hand, and the strength of it. 

“It would give me great pleasure/’ said he, in 
halting French, being not sure to trust himself in a 
foreign tongue; but the doctor’s days had been so ill- 
spent in the happy Paris of his early cliniques, that 
his pupil’s accent was passable. It seemed, then, that 
everywhere in the darkness there were servants await¬ 
ing. A little carriage pulled up in front of the hotel. 
Gavin noted the sleekness of the horses, and even 
in the lamplight saw that they were well-shod, and 
that the harness was sound and good. He under¬ 
stood no word of his companion’s quick commands, 
but found himself driving through lighted squares, 
by dim side-streets, until at last the horses were 
pulled up on their haunches, before a brilliantly 
lighted entrance, where many congregated, talking 
shrilly. He followed his guide through many lighted 
corridors; he was conscious of the smell of humanity 
mingling with the scents of flowers, violets and 
roses, and a droll heavy scent which he always 
associated with his first railway compartment. He 
was aware of many mirrors, and many reflected lights, 
of seeing himself, as he felt, lumbering beside his 
silent companion, who seemed to move rapidly with¬ 
out appearance of haste, soft striding like a cat. 
Presently he was seated in a box facing the lighted 
stage. He heard great gusts of laughter, the strange 



154 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


laughter of a foreign people. He saw below him 
rows and rows of Arabs, noticed the gleam of white 
teeth and the whiteness of eyes in eloquent glances. 
Frenchmen and their wives sat in front of these, the 
men boisterous, the women with heads lowered under 
broad-brimmed hats, yet smiling quietly; and now 
and then a young woman laughed a shrill, shamed, 
and quickly smothered laugh, and then heads were 
turned, and amused glances passed, and men nudged 
the one the other. In boxes opposite were men, in¬ 
tent seemingly on wine-bibbing and in close confab 
with women, who seemed to Gavin, lean, and lithe, 
and vicious, like clean-boned, bad-tempered thorough¬ 
breds. These paid no attention to the stage, and 
having looked, Gavin little wondered. An enormous 
woman stood statue-like close to the footlights and 
listened unmoved to the eloquent pleadings of a 
dwarf, a wee poor creature who seemed the victim 
of a dreadful passion. He was in torment, weeping, 
pleading, clawing with his beastly thick-fingered 
hands round the knees of the giantess, who stood 
smiling a horrible smile. Gavin thought of a cat 
with a mouse. The little man ran off the stage 
suddenly, and returned with a step-ladder. A gale 
of laughter greeted him. All his digits made elo¬ 
quent gestures; the giantess, stormed by this grin¬ 
ning, devilish-figured little escaladier, capitulated 
after a short and passive resistance, which seemed 
only to change the meaning of her smile. She fled, 
holding her scanty torn garments carelessly, paused 
for a second, and disappeared, pursued by the little 
galloping atom in high glee, still carrying his ladder. 
There was a look of savage scorn on the Arab’s face. 
Yet he had laughed heartily at the dwarf’s antics. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


155 


“What a cow,” said he, when the shameless woman 
vanished; “yet she has mothered sons, they say.” 
He shrugged eloquent shoulders and blew smoke 
rings. Over and over again Gavin found himself 
muttering, “Male and female created He them, male 
and female created He them. ’ ’ He was sick. Flower- 
vendors entered the box, offering roses, wet and 
heavy-smelling and beautiful, yet they seemed foul 
things, foul growths in foul air, fit only to be thrown 
to the stage in derision, or offered with many fine 
phrases to itinerant women parading from box to 
box, intent on selling sweet champagne and count¬ 
ing brass counters. Many women entered the box. 
They had cold calculating eyes; they were adepts 
at make-believe; their bosoms heaved to a look; 
their eyelids wavered and fluttered down, modest 
as doves; their hands were intimate but clean, with 
polished nails. To the young women the Arab was 
sweet as honey; his eyes seemed to burn, and yet 
the women turned from him to Gavin, intent on the 
stage. They seemed all to talk Arabic. To the elderly 
women, ghastly under a smear of powder, their eyes 
a-glitter and terrible, the sheikh used brutal laughter. 
It was as though some dreadful grave-digger had 
raised the dead, dressed in pitiful rags of finery, to the 
pitiless gaze of a highway. A great pity was born m 
Gavin for these dreadful, brave creatures, the butt 
and laughing-stock of an Arab, these women who at 
some time must have been young and innocent, long 
ago. He was young. How pitiful a worn-out, tired 
old woman, masquerading as a youthful folly, a 
brave light o’ love! He gave them money, and they 
grabbed with avaricious fingers like claws, glad of 
easy money, and yet half-inclined to be affronted 


156 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


that their charms be overlooked. But now there 
came a new blinking of coloured lights on the stage, 
strange fires leaped in dim braziers, and from some¬ 
where music sounded like a low moaning over a 
desolate rush-grown shore. Sounded ever and ever 
a harsher brazen note, like a second drone. It was 
wrong; the little melody would have been beautiful 
without it, yet always one waited for that harsh 
note, again and again. The Arab leaned forward in 
his seat, his eyes fixed on the wings, his face a cruel 
mask. From far away, mingling with the music, 
there came the little clank of cymbals, the little 
ringing of anklets. With the harsh snarling note the 
dancer came. As she stood till the shrill cries and the 
loud applause died away, as she stood smiling, sure 
of welcome, careless of welcome, her bare foot tapped 
to the beat of the hidden violins, her dark smiling eyes 
roved round from box to box. Gavin saw her smile 
to his companion. 

4 ‘It is not for nothing the gled whistles,” thought 
he, but his brain was afire with admiration. There 
was something almost martial about the gallant little 
dancer, the great embossed and jewel-encrusted breast¬ 
plate, with golden chains and pearls looped. Round 
her hips there was rolled tightly a cloth of broken 
colours, her legs and feet were bare, and on her arms 
great clanking golden bracelets. With every movement 
of her limbs there came that faint ringing sound from 
beaten anklets. There was something uplifting to 
Gavin in the sound. He saw knights in armour, heard 
the shouts of combat, great gallant pictures drifted 
before him as he watched. He knew the woman was 
beautiful. He knew not what she danced, nor why 
the theatre seemed to cease to breathe, that men's 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


157 


souls looked from their eyes, ugly swinish eyes, gleam¬ 
ing in dim light. Suddenly Gavin looked at the Arab; 
his fingers were curved, his mouth a little open, a 
flush on his dark cheek. He had forgotten the Scot, 
forgotten everything but the figure moving in the 
dim flares from leaping braziers. His face had the 
same look as a hunting cat—keen, cruel, lustful. The 
dance finished; lights went up; people breathed and 
talked and cheered. But the darkness had been the 
time for unknown thoughts, for blood a-riot, for 
cruelty, for lust to romp unchained, in the dark all 
unknown to one 7 s self, nearly. Men cried the dancer 7 s 
name, “La Grecque! La belle Grecque! 77 and again 
she danced, this time some light and airy dream, with 
no dark shadows. There was no jarring harsh note, 
but little ripples of music, like laughter, but I think 
men did not like this dance so well as the dance in 
the darkness, with the flares from the brazier leaping 
higher and higher, and a fire burning in the eyes of 
men. 

Gavin never remembered what turn came after 
La Grecque, for in a little time, when ribbons seemed 
to be drifting from floor to ceiling and the interior 
a maze of laughing faces, a little figure came into the 
box. This time the sheikh rose, but the lady sat 
down beside Gavin. She was breathless with laugh¬ 
ter and haste. She drank a glass of wine, with a droll 
mocking glance at the Mohammedan, and then her 
gallant little face turned to Gavin. 

“Que vous etes gentil,” said she, and raised her 
glass to him, exactly like a boy, but that there was 
softness in her dark eyes. “I spik English/ 7 she 
said; “you English? 77 

“Scots, 77 said Gavin, feeling clumsy. 


158 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“Jusque la meme, n’est-ce pas?” said she. 
“ Where do I dance? Oh, Constan., Budapest, 
Salonique, Le Caire, always dance. Is it not so, 
Barbe Noire?” The Arab endeavoured to clasp her 
hand. “Mais non,” she cried, laughing, and touched 
his wrist with her burning cigarette, laughing, with 
smoke curling in a cloud round her lips and oozing 
between her white teeth. “Restez tranquille—alors! 
What you think, my silent friend?” 

“I think you are very brave,” said Gavin. 

1 * Brave!” she cried. * ‘What use to be brave? 
I have many men to be brave for me, lovers, friends, 
»—brave, I do not want to be brave, I want to be 
beautiful! To dance the beautiful dance, and hear 
the women mutter because they are afraid and angry, 
to see the eyes of men, even the old men, bestial old 
men, and your eyes too, my friend—just now. Is 
it because I am brave you look like that? No^ 
non, voila! Ali bin Ali. He is a brave gar§on 
noir. Oh yes, plenty women love this bete noire.” 
Again the Arab put his lean brown fingers over the 
dancer’s little broad-palmed brown hand. Laugh¬ 
ingly she protested, and then her voice changed to 
that note of anger, that women have, who have known 
no fear of men since childhood. The Arab’s eyes 
fell. “Come,” cried La belle Grecque, “it is a night 
to drive under the stars.” 

The Arab rose to accompany them, but the woman 
was unforgiving. Gavin laughed at her resolute little 
mouth, at the fire in her dark eyes and the quiet 
voice stinging with scorn. Under the lash the Arab’s 
temper frayed. To this he was not used. He raised 
a threatening hand, and at that a droll thrill went 
through Gavin’s frame. He put the little dancer 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


159 


aside, failing to see the smile of triumph on her face, 
and put his open hand on the Arab’s shoulder. 

“Stay here,” said he; “the lady wishes it.” 

Very, very slowly the Arab bent below the hand 
on his shoulder, his lean strong fingers grasped at 
the wrist above him, but the terrible grip on his 
shoulder did not relax. He looked into two eyes, 
blazing and dancing with leaping lights above him. 
He saw that La Greeque was trembling with excite¬ 
ment. He forgot the stage, the audience, everything 
but that at his heart was his long hafted knife. As 
the snake strikes, so struck the Arab, but he found 
his knife-hand in a grip of steel; his tendons cracked, 
a pain like a flame burned at his collar-bone, and 
suddenly he sat down. He heard a sharp crack, and 
saw his guest break the long blade in his hands. The 
hilt was thrust towards him. 

“You are but half a man,” said Gavin; “keep 
half a blade,” and from the corridor there came the 
cruel laughter of a woman who has looked on a man’s 
shame. 

It was long after midnight. In Gavin’s hotel the 
lights were low in the lounge. La Greeque leant for¬ 
ward among her cushions, her eyes languorous. She 
touched Gavin with her foot; her laughter was 
low and joyous, her throat rippled with it, and anon 
it stopped suddenly on a half-drawn breath. She 
held one of Gavin’s hands, and after a long quick 
sentence she would raise it and look at it, or some¬ 
times fondle it against her cheek. 

11 After I have finished this coffee, ’ ’ said she slowly, 
her eyes almost closed, “I will retire, you under- 
stan’—numero sept—then come you and knock low, 


160 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


like that, and after a moment (perhaps two moments, 
monsieur) I will open the door. ,, She glanced around, 
and her arms went round Gavin’s neck crushingly. 
He vaguely wondered at her strength; he felt her 
lips on his cheeks, on his lips, and her voice at 
his ear, “Et alors c’est fait accompli,” and she left 
him. 

Gavin felt very much alone. “And that,” says he, 
“is what Mairi would call the de’il in the hedge.” 
He was trembling, his heart was thumping, and yet 
he must appear cool and collected to be like an 
ordinary man. 

From a distant corner a bell tinkled; a tall man 
rose and stretched himself. 

“Will you join me, my boy?” said he. “I must 
have been asleep.” 

“Indeed I will,” said Gavin; “I had forgotten all 
about drink.” 

The two men looked on each other, and in the 
older man’s face Gavin was tracing familiar lines. 

“The worst of a fcuit accompli,” said the stranger, 
“is that God Himself cannot see His way to undo 
it.” 

“I would not trouble God,” said Gavin quickly, 
a cold stare in his eyes, for he feared that here was 
one come to take care of him like a lassie. 

The elder man splashed soda-water into his tumbler. 
There was a droll smile on his face. 

“Sit down, my boy; you will forgive an old man’s 
whim. ’ ’ 

Gavin smiled and sat down, wondering where he 
had seen this man before—or one like him. 

“I take it you are a Scot.” 

“Yes,” said Gavin. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


161 


“Ye remember Flodden and James IV. and the 
wrinkled auld carle in a chariot?” 

“Well?” 

“And that old historian who thought that med¬ 
dling with women was not just the best way to start 
a campaign.” 

“But here’s no campaign,” said Gavin, “here’s no 
campaign, Sholto Douglas and he held out his 
hand. 

The dark-faced man gripped his hand fiercely. 

“The campaign’s waiting,” said he. “Did ye ken 
me on your father? But Stuart is the name I use 
now.” 

“I think it was the history,” said Gavin. “But is 
there a chance of being a solider?” 

“So you want to be first in the field of fight?” 
said Sholto. “For a little I thought the first line 
was troubling you— 

“‘First in the love of woman/ 

My man, you would not be the ninety-first—with La 
belle Grecque.” 

Therein he erred. 


CHAPTER II. 


TELLS HOW GAVIN JOURNEYS WITH SHOLTO DOUGLAS 
AND MEETS ONE TERRIBLE BONNY AND RAISED- 
LIKE. 


The two men sat far into the night, the exile drink¬ 
ing in the news from home. 

‘ ‘ I’■ve made a bonny mess of life/ ’ said he. “ James, 
yonr father, grown into a crank, and you a wanderer 
that should be in the King’s coat, and Janet Erskine 
bearing the brunt of my weakness. God, but I made 
a bonny mess of it, but I’ll say this. Yon letter 
took me long to write, for a man can come by his 
death handy in the .desert, and it was a near thing 
with me—near as ninepence, Gavin Douglas,—and, 
man, I should be a Lieutenant-General.” 

There was a great sorrow in the speaker’s voice. 
His hair, close-cropped, was grizzled, his moustache 
white. He was tall and lithe, with a wide shoulder, 
and carried himself with the bearing of a cavalry¬ 
man. He looked aye a soldier, Gavin thought, stand¬ 
ing or seated, but always there was a sadness in the 
face, as though life had cheated him. Gavin thought 
that would be with the thought of a man’s death 
on his mind, and— 

‘‘Uncle,” said he, a little shyly, “Ludovic Camp- 
162 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


163 


bell says yon never killed the man, although he 
died-” 

“Killed him, damn him! Would he lightly me or 
mine! I would have killed him, then. I would kill 
him now, but to leave my men that loved me, to 
miss the wars on the frontier, to drop out of the 
game before the game was played to a finish—that 
was the hell of it. But you, ’ ’ says he, ‘ * why are you 
stravaiging at your age? You’re too young for a 
woman to hurt—what sent you wandering?” 

“I wanted to see your horses,” said Gavin, “and 
your men—picked as you would choose a choice 
wine.” 

“And you shall! I’m glad you came. I’m get¬ 
ting old and stiff for the rough work. I can only plan 
and think out schemes. I need you, but I’ve no 
room for dancing-girls in my bivouac.” 

“Nor I,” said Gavin; “I was only being polite 
and respectful. I relieved the lady from the atten¬ 
tions of an Arab sheikh. I think I broke his collar¬ 
bone. Ali bin Ali was his name. ” 

“You’ve started well,” said Douglas, “for that is 
the start of it. The pity of it is you did not break 
his neck. You will live to regret that, maybe. You 
will meet him again. But the horses—are you fond 
of horse? But I need not ask ye that; there never 
yet was Douglas that had not love for horse.” 

In the days that followed Gavin found that his 
uncle lived for horses and war. Flocks were for a 
man’s pleasure and profit, camels to be sold—nasty, 
roaring, snarling brutes,—but the Arab horse was a 
gift from God, to be cherished with care and jealously 
guarded. He knew every famous breed in Arabia, 
and the tribes that kept the finest mares. Nay, he 



164 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


could tell offhand when Arab blood had been infused 
into other equine races. He spoke wisely of glands 
peculiar to the Arab horse. 

From Alexandria uncle and nephew took train for 
Cairo, and there Sholto showed Gavin old straight 
swords—swords patterned like Crusaders’ swords. 
They watched Egyptian troops at drill, visited the 
Pyramids, and spoke of Napoleon’s battles—always 
war and horses. Gavin longed to leave the cities, to 
start for his uncle’s home in the far desert. And on 
that route at last, he learned much of the history 
of Palestine. He remembered always the surprise 
that he felt, when Sholto Douglas would point to 
a far village with clustering palms. 

“There is the village where Judah went up to the 
sheep-shearing with his friend the Hittite,” or, “Yon¬ 
der is Gath, where Goliath lived.” 

They lay a night in Gaza, where Samson carried off 
the gates, passing through rich corn-lands, seeing 
many cattle, and the hills and trees like the hills in 
every land. The hills of Judah were like the hills of 
home in the dim light, but in the day there were 
gardens of olive-trees, here and there on the terraced 
slopes. There were gardens with orange groves, 
gardens with tall black trees like cypress, and 
broken walls, and stones lying, and dust every¬ 
where. 

Through Jerusalem to the flinty lands of Edom 
Gavin journeyed, day after day, from Cairo through 
the wilderness, through cultivated lands, then away 
beyond Jordan out into the wilderness again for 
many days. When at last they were nearing the end 
of their journey, at a little oasis, there met them a 
band of men with led horses—lean Arabs riding 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


165 


mares. They were well-armed with rifles of modern 
make. 

“Here be some of my men assembled to do you 
honour,” cried Sholto Douglas, and smiled. But 
from the approaching horsemen a rider spurred. He 
was a tall man, riding a beautiful chestnut mare. 
There seemed something massive about him—a man 
of tremendous will, of a slow smile, and heavy-lidded 
eyes. 

“This is my brother’s son,” said Douglas to the 
stranger. The Arab bowed. “And, Gavin, this is 
the Amir Abdul, whom good men are proud to serve.” 

Gavin bowed, and watched the two men talk long 
and earnestly. Then the Amir bounded away on 
the chestnut mare, his young men with him, and 
Douglas came back to Gavin, who sat his horse a 
little away from his uncle’s tribesmen. 

“Do you remember the Bonny Prince Charlie?” 
said Sholto. “Well, yonder goes the Prince Charlie 
of the desert, but them that live longest will see 
most. Ay, and yet I think they’ll see yon man a king. 
Harried from post to pillar, from wealth to the face 
of the desert, never sure that the night will not 
bring death, yet there he rides on a king’s horse, 
and there lives not a man in the desert that will 
ride him down; gentle with the humble, arrogant 
to the oppressor, he has lived his youthful years. 
Men have sworn to take his life. Long has he been 
hunted by his father’s foes and his—Mohammed the 
Usurper, that old lion, and the Turk in Constanti¬ 
nople. Often has he hidden with me, often come in 
secret for counsel. Yon is more than a desert chief 
concerned with petty strife—yon lad plays for a 
kingdom. ...” 


166 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


At midnight, below a great clear moon, Gavin first 
saw his uncle’s home. In the shadows it had the 
look of an ancient castle, but that there were no 
turrets. A great white wall surrounded the place 
and enclosed a garden of tall dark trees. The win¬ 
dows were barred with iron—afterwards he found 
that Douglas had bought the ruins of an ancient 
building and had all but rebuilt it. Still there were 
here and there arches of stone (where a horse could 
be stabled) and droll outlandish flat roofs, with no 
way to get at them seemingly. But there was water 
plashing in a fountain in the courtyard, and many 
trees, and the scent of flowers. There came men to 
take the horses, bare-footed, with lean muscular limbs, 
their teeth white in their lean swarthy faces. Gavin 
followed his uncle through an oaken doorway, carved, 
and with the heads of great iron nails in it. “The 
place would stand a siege,” thought he. 

There was a great stone fireplace in the hall, and 
many chairs set by the wall—old chairs of black wood 
and with armorial bearings on the back of them. 
The floor was paved neatly with square flagstones, 
and on the walls were swords crossed, and the heads 
of animals. A great broad stairway of stone led 
upwards. It was such a hall as one might find in 
Scotland. 

Douglas welcomed his nephew to his house and 
smiled at him. 

“It’s a sore trade to be an exile,” said he. “I’ve 
made this place to look like home, for it’s the last 
place a man leaves, and the first place he returns to; 

and here’s a lass should be in her bed-” and 

looking to the stairway, Gavin saw Marjory Douglas 
descending, her face eager, and the gladness of wel- 



GAVIN DOUGLAS 


167 


come over it. She paused for a moment on seeing 
a stranger, then came slowly on. Her face was dark, 
but it was as though the warm blood was a dark 
wine. There was a faint far-away hint of hauteur 
about her—about the red mouth, as though the 
chiselled lips pouted, in the poise of the beautiful 
head, in the straight fearless look from her great 
dark eyes. She kissed her father, and Gavin remem¬ 
bered always the long delicate hands clinging, and 
the sweeping black lashes; and in the daft-like way 
that a vagrant thought will come, he minded Pate 
Dol, “I thought her terrible bonny and raised-like.’’ 

“This long-legged lad is your cousin,” said Doug¬ 
las, “my brother’s son, Marjory, and you know the 
Arab law.” 

“Am I Bedouin, then,” said Marjory, “that you 
threaten marriage on a guest?” And she smiled to 
Gavin, who did not know the inner meaning of their 
talk. 

That night he listened to father and daughter, the 
girl eager, her voice low and beautiful, anxious if 
her father were well, “for his letters forgot about his 
health.” Of strangers who sought the hospitality of 
the house, of distant flocks and favourite horses, 
they talked. They were served by a venerable- 
looking old man, white-bearded and tall, in white 
robes, who had charge of his master’s household in 
his absence. The old man craved leave to speak, 
bowing before Douglas. 

“Two days, Effendi, two days the dog Ali bin 
Ali—whom may Allah smite—two days have passed 
since this eater of dirt fell on thy servants returning 
with corn and oil, and smote them, taking many 
camels and their loads.” 


168 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Douglas turned to Gavin. 

“And that’s the second act,” says he, and turned 
again to Ishmael. “I’ve paid dearly for his broken 
collar-bone. ’ ’ 

“The Amir Abdul recovered the booty by the 
sword,” continued the old man, “and rested in the 
heat of the day, but Ali bin Ali and his young men 
escaped.” 

Douglas was thoughtful. 

“A neighbourly act,” said he. “He told me that 
he and his people had rested, and yet said no word 
of the caravan. ’ ’ 

“Effendi, seeing your mark on the camels, he 
‘smote the Jackal of the mountains so that he and 
his people fled’; these were the words of my Lord 
Abdul.” 

So Gavin began the new life, riding with Douglas 
to far grazings by the banks of river-beds (wadies, 
Sholto named them), with steep banks, and stones 
and gravel in the heart of them. To Douglas, men 
had come in his exile—for he was a Bedouin in dress 
and speech in the desert,—many men had come, and 
made their abiding-place under the shadow of his 
walls, using his wells and becoming his men, his 
herdsmen and horsemen. Gavin entered the new 
life like the building of his Look-out. He was eager 
for morning and evening, that he could work; and 
even in the heat of the day he would strive against 
the sun, wearing a droll Bedouin head-dress, and to 
look at him, he might have been born to that life, 
for he was long-striding in his gait, and with a dignity 
about him not unlike those bred in the desert. But 
also there was a difference—whereas those of the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


169 


sands were content to take good or ill as Allah willed, 
Gavin was for ever striving to make the ill better. 
The wells that had served their fathers were without 
doubt good enough for the children of the sands, 
but a well to Gavin was something to be cared for 
like a child, the water was there to be saved, to be 
used to the last drop. If two date-palms could grow 
where before one flourished, two must grow. In 
place of the laissez-faire of the East, he strove un¬ 
knowingly to establish the efficiency of the West. 
He would have light broad-wheeled wains for carry¬ 
ing crops; he would have reaping-machines. He 
would farm in the East as he had farmed in the cold 
West Coast, and the children of the East laughed at 
him, quoting many proverbs. 

He read books on irrigation, striving against the 
thirsty sand, planting hedges of camel-thorn, with 
broad prickly leaves; leading new channels of water, 
like a boy at a game; laughing when Douglas told 
him of the contempt of the Bedouin for the settled 
Arab. 

“They will not give their daughters to wife to 
such as these,” said Douglas. 

“No,” said Gavin, “but they will learn, and a man 
must make a start somewhere.” He rode with 
Douglas to visit the great desert chiefs, men of flocks 
and herds, dwelling in tents with their families and 
kindred round them. Hundreds of tents there were 
on the grazing, wherever the flocks lead, and an old 
man mayhap with his hounds and his hawks by him, 
and all that passed in the compass of his herds told 
him by day and by night, giving gifts of apparel to 
the stranger within his gate, showing the hospitality 
of his kindred. The eternal drinking of coffee was a 


170 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


grave trial to Gavin on these occasions, and yet at the 
coffee-drinking all news circulated, from the cities 
on the fringe of the wilderness, from the outside 
world. Of all the Eastern folks, these desert chiefs 
were best. And I think that it was because of his 
Old Testament reading that that was so. Sholto 
Douglas had taken care of the children of his people, 
so that there were few among them with tender eyes; 
and his work made Gavin’s easier, although the desert 
men thought little of the new plough that he brought. 
If they ploughed, they would plough as did their 
fathers, in the flinty lands of Edom, else would the 
grain fail, or a murrain come on the cattle. How 
Pate Dol would have laughed at his little sheep of 
droll colours like calves; how would Mairi have 
scorned the little milch cows, black mostly, and lean as 
Hunger's mother. Much of his crops he lost, because 
that the Bedouin grazed their mares on his standing 
grain, claiming the half of his harvest as desert mail. 
These Bedouins, Arabs of the blood, lean men and 
lithe, lived by the sword; riders who beset the 
straight ways to cut out and drive off a booty. “Wa 
Allah," said his herdsmen, ‘‘such as these would 
violate the stranger within his gates." 

“Live by the sword," said Gavin, “live by the 
rusty old matchlock, tinkered through three gen¬ 
erations. ’’ 

A leader of such as these was Ali bin Ali. But 
of Ali bin Ali later. The grass was more to Gavin 
than that lean warrior, who had taken all the vice 
of the gaiour to add to his native devilry, for the 
grass in the river-beds would grow three feet in 
height. His uncle’s herdsmen, grave bearded men, 
were pleased as children at his praise, men who (de- 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


171 


spite the dreadful form of Afrit, the bogle, and Ghoul 
with a hoof and a claw and a horrible beak) were 
faithful shepherds, who marvelled much at their mas¬ 
ter^ night wanderings, knowing little of his appren¬ 
ticeship in the handling of things not of this world, 
as Raw Head and Bloody Bones, and the Blind Tup 
of Dungannon’s tales. 

For such as the master, the wallow of the wild 
boar was treasure, the Bedouin rider with his rusty 
flintlock was but a playock for children. But of his 
work, the greatest pleasure was the choosing, and 
mating, of the horses that Sholto had for his pastime 
in the long years of his exile. The Arab mares, full 
of fire, yet to be ridden with a silken thread; the 
great stallions that the Arabs use cruelly, using a 
brutal bit, and not refraining from beating them on 
the head with the butt of a spear; these were his joys. 

He laughed that the desert men, though sitting 
loosely in the saddle, could carry a spear between 
the leg and the droll patched saddle of the sands. 

In the evenings Gavin went to school again, as he 
said. Marjory Douglas, with a square blackboard 
and a grave air of a professor, taught him the lan¬ 
guage of his new country. A wonderfully well- 
attended school it was, and sometimes a pupil who was 
not very quick, for there were times when Gavin would 
lead his teacher away from the verbs and nouns, to the 
stories of the people, or the poems of the desert song- 
makers. And often it would be the great deeds of 
the Amir Abdul that would move the teacher to 
forgetfulness. Gavin, wishing always for companion¬ 
ship so long denied him, listened to these tales, not¬ 
ing the sparkle in the dark eye of his companion, 
and the leaping pride in her voice, as she told of 


172 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Abdul’s deeds. She was afire for bravery, for great 
deeds, and from her Gavin found that Ali bin Ali 
was the enemy of the Amir, and friend to the Turk, 
that his people were to the south in the desert. He 
learned also that this desert raider had all but carried 
Marjory from her father’s arms. Sholto Douglas, 
intent on the literature of the Arab horse, studying 
often their pedigrees, in circles of neat Arab writing, 
was content that Gavin should be in his place, in 
the field and in the hall. 

In the walled garden Marjory would walk in the 
evening, when the darkness came down quickly among 
the trees, and oftentimes Gavin would be by her side, 
and always they would talk in Arabic, for that was 
the rule of Marjory. In the cool night with the 
scent of roses, he would tell her of his home and of 
his people, who were hers also, talking slowly and 
waiting for a word, or he would listen to her tales 
of the constellations luminous above them. On such 
a night, being a little late, having talked with Sholto, 
Gavin walked in the darkness of the garden in search 
of Marjory. 

To him she came quickly and put her hand on his 
arm, and he could feel her tremble, but it was with 
anger. He heard the thundering of a horse in head¬ 
long gallop. 

“Will you cut him down?” Marjory was shaking 
his arm; ‘ ‘ beat him, kill him, make his house a 
weeping-place, and his heritage a waste; Ali bin Ali, 
that jackal, that devourer of the offal of cities. He 
came by the wall, standing in his stirrups; he spoke 
to me, he dared to speak to me, to threaten me. The 
words of his mouth were a defilement-” 

Gavin held her by the shoulder. “Listen, little 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


173 


soldier ,’ 9 said he, “we will meet him, you and I and 
none others; long or short, the time will come, and 
this I will promise—he will go home a hale man— 
wanting the head. Such was the deed of a Douglas. 
"We will hold to the old customs, since he is the 
enemy of the Amir Abdul,” said Gavin. 

“Sir,” said Marjory, “is it nothing to you that he 
would have used me basely?” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE DESERT DUEL. 

“ There are two things I love in this life, J ’ said 
Marjory, “the evening and the morning. ,, 

“And the evening and the morning were the first 
day,” replied Gavin. 

“And behold, it is always the first day here,” she 
answered, “the first day for ever and ever. The 
morning star burning low in the sky, close to the 
Arabs, for I think that the stars are the night friends 
of the desert folks, the sure friends of the caravan 
leader, watchful in the night, with only the snarling 
and bubbling of the camels and the fretting of the 
horses, the distant screaming of beasts of prey in 
his ears, and away, away, behind him, the winding 
train moving slowly; the camel-drivers in their blue 
robes, with the long staff for comfort, when bare 
bones shine white by the way, where long ago a tired 
beast lay down and awaited release from his burden, 
waited barracked for days, until he laid down his 
head on the sands, and the wild dogs yelped for food 
—and lacked it not.” 

“And what of the evening?” said Gavin. 

“Ah,” she cried, “all the day the sun is burning, 
or the sand is blowing—first in little trickles that 
174 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


175 


hardly cover the hoof-marks of a horse, but growing 
and growing, until great clouds, blowing, rush on¬ 
wards ; the heaven and the earth are sand and a burn¬ 
ing wind—hour after hour, sand clinging to the eye¬ 
lashes like a white powder, sand gritting on the teeth, 
and the oasis far ahead—no cool breath and no distant 
palms—anger and fear in the hearts of men, and a 
prayer for evening—for the calming of the wind, 
for a long cool breath of sweet air, for the coming of 
the first star—the lamp of the waste—the camp—the 
odour of cooking—the noise of beasts feeding, the 
song of the young men a-busied with horses—the' 
dark-boled palms upright—or perhaps the silver 
moon with a bent palm black across it—the moon and 
the star of the Turk—the camels wandering in the 
camel-thorn—the blue shadow from the prophet’s 
tomb, and the dark shadows on far mountains.” 

It was morning. Gavin and Marjory watched an 
Arab drawing water for his little flock. There was a 
primitive derrick. On an upright post a little way 
from the well, a long slender pole like a fishing-rod, 
but stouter, was balanced; and from the slender end 
a bucket depended over the water, hung by a rope. 
A great weight at the butt helped to lift the full 
bucket to the top, and the cold brackish water was 
slashed into the troughs, and the beasts drank long 
and thirstily. 

“I think before Ishmael so they drew water,” said 
Marjory, and the shepherd stood with bowed head. 
Their horses walked daintily, the long pasterns yield¬ 
ing and their round hoofs bounding from the sand; 
the lines of muscles showing, the upthrown heads 
tossing the long manes; the beautifully arched tail, 
the air of pride and beauty and power, the sidling 


176 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


play to a careless caress—there is nothing so proud 
as a desert horse. 

“There is a beautiful story that when Ishmael 
went from his father’s house, he and his mother 
Hagar, fleeing from the unholy wrath of a righteous 
wife, to perish miserably for aught she cared, and 
the boy Ishmael lay a-dying of thirst—the waters 
of Mara are not so bitter as a woman’s righteousness, 
—then the angel appeared, and behold! a well of 
springing water and a great blessing, and the first- 
fruits of the blessing grew in the far desert, and they 
were the first Arab horses.” 

Gavin smiled at the story. He loved such details. 
“But,” said he, “I was thinking of the Knight of 
the Leopard riding his heavy-boned war-horse on 
these soft sands, mail-clad horse and man, with 
armour, and housings, in the heat of the day; and 
his adversary, moving swift as a bog-trooper, on a 
pure-bred Arab, and yet the Scot fared none so ill.” 

They had left the palms and the long low white 
house. Before them for miles stretched the desert, 
trackless as an ocean, yet, like a sea, having many 
routes. Once away in front, a fast-trotting camel 
bore its rider to some refuge close to water, where 
fig-trees and date-palms grew, and where beautiful 
children awaited the father’s coming, among dogs and 
little heat-demented fowls. As always, the long 
curved sword was strapped tight between the girth 
and surcingle of Gavin’s horse, the hilt at his knee. 
Now the horses swept along at a stretch gallop, and 
the keen morning air rushed past. Marjory’s face 
was wind-whipped, her eyes sparkled. She laughed 
aloud to feel her horse leap sideways from some little 
rodent, searching hidden grain. Once they passed 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


177 


an Arab village with mud-built walls. Lean mares 
and foals grazing the scanty herbage neighed and 
wheeled to the shrill whinnying of Gavin’s stallion. 
There, also, were great pits with mouths unprotected 
and flush with the sands, in which grain could be 
stored and hidden. They were well built of dressed 
stone and very deep. 

“In such as these,” cried Marjory, “they cast 
Joseph, because that he dreamed a dream.” 

“Some day, Marjory, they may cast me in also, 
for I too have dreamed.” 

“Your dreams are of war,” she cried, “of the 
press of horses and men, or of water flowing in dry 
wadies, and bringing fruit and trees and green fields 
and grain and horses. There would be no more miles 
of sand, but water creeping into the dust, of always 
more water, and the dry lands drinking it, and send¬ 
ing up an offering of flowers; but all the wild lone 
desert rides would be over, and the earth would 
send a wet breath to the morning sun.” 

“But there would be great flocks and herds, and 
cattle and horses, and food and riches, and the people 
would grow great.” 

“The lean desert men would wax fat,” said Mar¬ 
jory, “and the horses also, and the railways would 
come, and distance would spread her wings.” 

They were now come to rough broken hills, with 
treacherous foothold. Beyond was level plain. The 
horses climbed upwards, leaping cleverly like cats. 
Suddenly the stillness was shattered and a leaden 
bullet went whizzing and singing past Gavin’s head; 
a great grey horse leaped from behind a hillock, and 
his rider waved his long-barrelled gun high above his 
head. 


178 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Ali bin Ali, jackal of the mountain, barred the 
way. His grey steed plunged and reared, the white 
foam spattering his front like cream. Again and 
again he neighed, afire for battle. 

Gavin laughed aloud. 

“‘Ha’ doon, ha’ doon/ cried good Lord James. 

‘Ha* doon into the plain. 

We’ll let the Scottish Lion loose 
Within the hills o’ Spain/ ” 

and he circled his horse across Marjory’s path so 
that she was hidden. “Is not that the song of 
songs?” he cried, and handed her a long vicious 
Colt. “If I am killed,” said he, “hide this till ’bin 
Ali puts his arms about you, then put the muzzle 
against his heart and blow him into hell. Then ride, 
Ho flee or follow, there’s not his marrow in braid 
Scotland,’ ” and he patted her horse’s neck. Mar¬ 
jory’s face was white with anger, her eyes blazed, 
her lips curved. 

“Bend,” she cried, “bend,” and almost had he 
done it, when he saw the purpose in her eyes. 

“Ye canna shoot at sitting game,” he cried, and 
wheeled his horse. The long curved sword glittered 
like an arc of light, and the black horse leaped to 
meet the grey. 

“Ali bin Ali, to-morrow’s sun will see the wild 
dogs batten on your lean flesh. To-morrow, ’bin Ali” 
—the blades met with a long hissing sehliver,—“to¬ 
morrow will I ride and see the little white nerves 
hang from your back-bone like white strings, and the 
vulture will whet his beak on your breast-bone.” 

The horses reared and screamed with rage. Gavin’s 
voice was full of devilish joy; his eyes were cold fury. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


179 


4 ‘Who learned ye the sword?” he crooned, “who 
learned ye to dance? A bonny stroke, 0 son of Ali 
—a near thing.’’ 

The Arab fought like a fiend, his face was black 
with sweat and wrath. There was blood on his 
curling beard. He spat oaths. 

“How will ye have it?” Gavin’s voice was roar¬ 
ing. “ ‘A clout athwart the chats’ would redden 
that daft-like beard. Will I cut off your bridle hand ? ’ ’ 
And then the voice changed, like a bitter east wind. 
“Fight, man, fight, for there’s death at your elbow.” 
At that his spurs bit to the rowels, the black reared 
up and forwards with a wicked scream, his teeth met 
in the grey’s withers. Gavin was high in the stirrups, 
and his sword hand raised. The Arab looked up, his 
lean hairy throat bare, but his upflung guard came too 
late. Gavin’s curved blade shore through skin and 
muscle and bone. Ali, son of Ali, swayed gently 
from the saddle, as though his knees were loath to 
loosen their hold, a great upthrust of blood spouted 
from his throat, and splattered thickly on his horse’s 
mane. The beast wheeled and galloped in mad fear 
of the fluttering clinging thing at his side; the all 
but severed head stotted and bounded like a ball. 

“Hanging by a hair,” said Gavin. “Gallop on, 
man, gallop on; it’s no great harm, ye have a bonny 
son to ride the grey.” 

The great black horse, irked by the spur stroke, 
still plunged and reared when Marjory rode near. 
Tight-lipped, she had watched the combat, until the 
last tremendous cleaving sweep, when a tingling 
sensation leapt to her feet and fingers, as though all 
her being had signalled joy. Now she was all timid, 


180 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


a new shyness assailed her, lest the turmoil in her 
blood be betrayed by speech or look. Unknown feel¬ 
ings frightened her. She wished to weep, yet felt 
like laughter. With difficulty she raised her eyes, 
afraid of what they might reveal, and the very de¬ 
liberation of her glance accentuated the long curling 
lashes, the liquid loveliness of her eyes, the dark 
flush on her cheeks. 

“Oh, Gavin/’ she whispered, “I am altogether 
wicked. There is only joy here ’’—she placed her hand 
on her breast,—“and I know that to-night the prowlers 
in the dark will give tongue on a bloody spoor. The 
women in Ali’s hold will beat their breasts and loosen 
their hair; the children, the little brown babes, will 
sob in the night, and the gallant grey will cower and 
look round with great eyes to his near side, and snort 
in terror in the dark, when dogs will howl without.” 

There was a strange timbre in Gavin’s voice as he 
answered. So had she heard her father speak when 
deeply moved. 

“Aye,” said he, “and these are very fine feelings 
for a lass, but for a man that has seen so very little, 
I am glad that yon head that stotted on the sand 
was not mine, and that yon leaden slug went singing 
by me.” 

“The dog,” she cried, her voice a-tremble, “the 
treacherous dog. I should have shot him down, but 
you were wrong in one thing. Had you died, I should 
have died also, without waiting to send that man to 
hell. Oh, Gavin, I loved the sureness of you. ‘ Wait,’ 
said you, ‘with your gun hidden until he takes you 
in his arms, put the muzzle to his heart and blow him 
to hell.’ Where did you learn such a very woman’s 
trick?” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


181 


“Once long ago,” said Gavin, “a little lady taught 
it me,” and he laughed. 

Marjory looked at him a long time. At a little 
broken well, where still a few palms straggled and 
fig bushes clustered, Gavin dismounted, and Marjory 
held the horses until he had cleared away the silted 
sand, and filled a water-bottle; then he loosened the 
girths quickly and slipped the bits. They watched 
the horses drink, not great greedy draughts, but 
sipping, and raising their heads often, and looking 
away ahead, with water dripping from their wet 
muzzles. In a little, the horses stood, now and then 
swishing their tails, now and then tossing their heads 
and sending little showers of yellow tibbin to their 
feet. Marjory sat a little way off, close to the well, 
her feet gathered under her, and leaning on one arm. 
She had taken fruit from her saddle-bag—dates and 
great yellow oranges,—and as Gavin washed his 
hands, she spoke to him. 

“I could read your thoughts, Gavin,” said she, 
looking at him and smiling, her face a little wrinkled 
by reason of the sunlight. 

“Guess away,” said Gavin. 

“See yonder Scot eating his own blood,” said 
Marjory. “You remember Bruce in the pavilion of 
Edwardus Rex Malleus Scotorum?” 

“That was near enough,” said Gavin; “but the 
blood is not my own, and see, my hands are clean; 
but I was thinking—I was thinking you were like 
Edith Plantagenet—tall and dignified and talking 
little, like a man, not like Berengaria.” 

61 Berengaria—that fluffy fool ! 1 y There was a 
world of scorn in Marjory’s voice. “Berengaria is 
the woman of to-day—a wife, and yet with a mad- 


182 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


ness in her blood for pleasure—a sheep, yet skipping 
like a lamb—Berengaria! ’ ’ 

Gavin held a little drinking-cup in his hand and 
filled it from the water-bottle, and watched Marjory 
drink, the moving of her throat, the little moistness 
of her red lips; and then refilling the cup, he raised 
it., and “beux yeux Edith/ ’ said he, looking into 
her eyes with a friendly smile. Marjory lowered her 
head, and then with a little impatient gesture— 
“But I know,” she said, “that men prefer them 
fluffy and nearly fat, and soft like kittens.” She sat 
silent, with a grave face, but Gavin’s laughter made 
her smile, even against her will. “But I know they 
do. My father has told me all these things, and my 
father was of your cold land.” 

On the homeward trail Marjory talked. Her eyes 
were sweeping each new rise, a long far-seeing gaze: 
the very little dust-devils did not escape her. The 
droll-pictured mirage of trees and water she scanned 
long, as though some rider might be approaching 
unseen. But for Gavin, there was a strangeness on 
him, a feeling of wellbeing, of having proved himself 
a man in the affairs of men. He hummed to himself, 
sitting easily in his saddle, some old, old forgotten 
ballad of a man whose hands could keep his head. 
Then suddenly he turned to Marjory. 

“I thought I was a man. I have been thinking 
I was maybe a man, but this minute I know I am 
more like a lass with a new frock, taken on with 
myself like a bairn. Why do you not laugh at me—” 
Marjory smiled. 

“—and bring me back to earth? James Douglas 
that fought seventy-two battles was neither elated 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


183 


overmuch with victory nor cast down with defeat, 
and here’s me singing because I cut down a man. 
I would not be crowing sae crouse had he given me 
an elder brother’s blow, I warrant—I would like to 
be that kind of man that could laugh at defeat.” 

Marjory reined in her horse to walking pace. 

‘‘Gavin,” she whispered, “I am not brave like 
you—somewhere there is a softness in my blood; 
often in the long weary afternoons I would be seeking 
a cool shade by a window with the noise of water 
plashing and the pleasant sounds of a homestead, 
and I would be making dreams for myself, and being 
wondrous brave, and doing fine deeds that poets would 
be singing of, and maybe mothers telling to their 
little ones. I would be leading armies with great 
words on my lips like Napoleon at the Pyramids, 
and seeing the people casting flowers in my path, 
in the path my horse would be treading; and some¬ 
times I would be leading a charge, but now I know 
that I am not fit to be—to be”—she hesitated for a 
word—“of a warlike folk. I am only a baby, only 
a play-actress, as my father sometimes says. I can 
hear still your words in my ears, and my flesh thrills 
to the devilish cruelty and the joy of them. I tell 
you I understood that feeling—it was in me to do 
that thing, but afterwards, Gavin, I felt afraid,— 
that great grey horse galloping—the poor faithful 
brute—in terror of what came with him; and oh, 
I saw myself among the women that waited, Gavin, 
and it might have been you, my kinsman, that came 
leaving that horrible track beside the hoof-marks.” 

“Well, and so it might,” said Gavin, “and a very 
good ending too, Marjory. ...” 

“But—but,” she cried, “you had no such thoughts. 


184 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Gavin, it was the first time, I think, that I saw you 
all happy. So have I heard my father sing often 
after little battles—sing and carry me on his shoulder 
and talk to me, as old warriors talk to their young 
sons. I remember once he buckled his great sword to 
me, and stood me in front of him. ‘Could you back 
a staunch horse?’ he cried, and lifted me up, and it 
was then I felt brave and daring, and the thought 
of weeping was not near me, but to-day I was afraid.” 

“It is the finest time to be afraid—afterwards,” 
he told her. “You were not afraid when yon bullet 
went whistling between us, and I never noticed any 
fear when you told me to ‘bend’; and as for being 
afeared now, that’s like an old fellow that I kent. 
He told me that once he went to a neighbouring 
farmer for the loan of a horse, and the farmer took 
down the bridle and handed it to him. ‘She’s graz¬ 
ing in the stackyard,’ said the farmer, ‘catch her 
yourself.’ ‘She came at me with her mouth open 
and her forefeet in the air,’ said my friend, ‘and 
d’ye ken, Gavin, if it hadna been that the gentry 
was looking, I would have run, but I made a breenge 
and got the bit into her mouth all the easier that it 
was open. A man canna be a coward before folk,’ 
said he, and that was how it was with me, Marjory— 
it was just you being there that put me on my 
mettle.” 

For a long while they rode in silence, and often 
Marjory was as if about to speak, and as often she 
refrained, till at last, when the white house, set amid 
dark trees and rough-built stone dykes (where yet 
the stones stood neatly in place, and not like the 
tumble-down dykes in Eastern cities), was plain be¬ 
fore them, Marjory took her horse close to Gavin’s. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


185 


“Was she very beautiful, Gavin?” said she, “the 
little lady that taught you yon trick with the pistol ? ’ ’ 

“She was very beautiful, Marjory,” said he, “she 
was indeed, and I think she would be very beautiful 
to be receiving a man’s guests, and very gracious 
behind tea-cups at the head of a table; but she will 
have forgotten me long syne, or maybe looking for 
me in the theatres.” 

* 1 Theatres ? ’ ’ 

“You see, she thought me a kind of play-actor too.” 

“I think she was a fool.” 

“No, but I’ve been thinking that I was the fool.” 

“And I am very glad that she thought that of 
you,” said Marjory, after a long silence, when the 
white-walled house was near, “for now I know that 
she never could have known you—not properly,” 
said she. 

“There’s a kind of sameness about nice lassies,” 
said Gavin, but he said it to himself. 


CHAPTER IV. 

how Dungannon’s longing came over him again, 

AND HOW PATE DOL SAID SOMETHING CLEVER. 

When Gavin was in the wilderness, a man among 
grave men and elders, a hero to the herdsmen and 
dealers with horse and cattle, riding often with Mar¬ 
jory Douglas, for there was great friendship between 
these two, and listening always to Sholto, her father’s 
dreams of a great war, a war in Europe that would 
light up the ends of the world in its blaze, Irene 
Savage waited. 

She had many suitors, for she did everything well; 
and were not the Society journals for ever singing 
her praises, for ever lauding her beauty in a town of 
beautiful women ? John Savage, a man of few words, 
wondered that his daughter was content to remain 
under his roof when there were many other homes 
for her acceptance. But of late there had come over 
her a passion for wandering. The fashionable resorts 
of their kind were become anathema to her; she 
craved for hunting trips in the Far West, in the 
Rocky Mountains. She would think out her costumes 
for these trips, dressing herself like a heroine in a 
picture film, being very brave in her bearing, and 
assuming an air of the experienced hunter, the woman 
186 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


187 


inured to hardship, the helpmate for a man. But it 
was also as though the fight against her feminine 
instincts made her the more feminine. In her heart 
she hated rough tweeds, except on a golf course or 
on a moor. She looked with distaste on hunting-hoots 
and cord breeches, and little, round, smart hats. 
She hated killing things, but made herself an efficient 
shot. She was grown more beautiful, more tireless, 
and yet there was in her face the look of one search¬ 
ing. Mairi Voullie Vhor might have told her what 
ailed her. She would sit on a little artist’s chair 
with her water-colours, gazing at gaunt cliffs and 
black trees and rushing rivers; and often there would 
come into her eyes a far-away look, and on her face 
a softness as of remembrance, and then, with a little 
sigh, Irene would come back to earth again and her 
painting. 

And at one time, sitting in her little sanctum, Prim 
Sheppard came upon her with a rough drawing before 
her. There was a dark sea with the first light on it 
wanly, and a great rock and a figure in armour tower¬ 
ing thereon, and Irene was working at the face of 
the knight. She left her work with a sigh and a 
smile. 

“I can never, never, never, get the face,” said 
Irene. ‘‘ There should be a smile and a frown and a 
wonder in the face, and a fierceness and a tender¬ 
ness. There should be everything in the face, but 
I ’ll never get it. ’ ’ 

But after that, when Irene would be alone, Prim 
Sheppard would find her with her man in armour, 
as she called the picture. 

“But no,” said Irene, “he is only a boy in armour,” 
and she would play with her fingers at the single 


188 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


pearl at her throat and gaze for long at nothing. The 
missing face intrigued Prim Sheppard. She studied 
illustrated papers, looking for a face that would fit, 
as it were, the picture. She scanned the faces of 
tanned young men, she borrowed Irene’s dreams and 
came to her with many photographs, but her mistress 
only smiled. 

“I’ll never, never get that face.” 

And then sitting before her fire, dressed altogether 
as a girl should be dressed, with soft laces and silks, 
her silken hose gleaming in the firelight, Prim Shep¬ 
pard came to her a-flutter. 

“I’ve found it, and he’s an Arab chief, ’ ’ she cried, 
“dark and fierce and with drooping eyelids, and he 
has a short beard, but you could take that away,” 
and she produced her find. 

Have you ever walked in a street and there passed 
you some one resembling a friend, but you know 
that you are making believe, and suddenly, while 
still thinking, the very friend hails you from the 
other side? 

Irene took up the paper with a smile. “Where?” 
said she, and read “Coup d’etat in the Desert.” 
Hollowed a graphic description of a wild night ride, 
of a small band scaling a palace wall, and of an 
Amir’s banner floating over the home of his fathers. 
There were then some details of the Amir Abdul’s 
life, and below a picture of a group of men and horses, 
and in the foreground, the Amir. 

Irene looked at the face, the sadness, the nobility 
of it; noted the Semitic cast of feature, the grace of 
his bearing in the saddle; but she knew that that face 
would never complete her picture. She could visual¬ 
ise the face of her picture in her mind, but always it 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


189 


escaped her when she tried to draw it. She kept the 
paper in her hand on her lap, looking into the fire. 
Was this another foolishness like looking for her lost 
pearls ? She smiled at that, fingering her little chain; 
her eyes sought the photograph again, and he was 
looking at her. She took the paper nearer fearfully, 
afraid to lift her eyes lest this he some trick of vision, 
lest never again would she catch that look. It might 
be the firelight, the curve of the paper—anything! 
But no! In the full blaze of electric light, the face 
looked at her—a tall man he must be, riding a chest¬ 
nut horse with a white blaze, an Arab, darker than 
the Amir, leaner of feature, more hawk-like. She 
took a glass for magnifying little specimens, sent Miss 
Sheppard away on some pretence, and sat down to 
examine the picture anew. 

With the door shut she rose and locked it. Her 
heart was beating, her hands shaking; she could 
hardly see. Then she forced calmness on herself, 
and focussed the glass. But she knew—she knew 
that she could not be mistaken; the face was Jim’s. 

Then hit by bit she reasoned. The Amir was 
bearded, moustache and heard met round his mouth, 
leaving the lips unconcealed. There were others so 
bearded, but by the Arab’s bridle hand the other 
face, Jim’s face, clean-shaven, lean, eager, yet strong 
and massive. 

A tremendous happiness assailed her. She whis¬ 
pered to herself, afraid afterwards to remember what 
she whispered. She laughed happily. Deriding her¬ 
self, she rose and looked at her reflection in a mirror. 

What kind of man was he now? Had he learned 
kissing? Would women matter anything to such as 
he? There seemed no softness about the face. She 


190 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


tried to make it smile, but no trick of the magnifying- 
glass could aid her. But that night she slept with 
the picture under her pillow, a common trick with 
foolish women. 

Her happiness remained with her on waking. She 
propped the periodical against her knees, and gazed 
at it while she drank tea, but no one saw that. She 
visited a photographer, and came back home singing. 

She got an enlargement of the photograph, with 
the other figures blocked out. She smiled to the face, 
kissed it, and shook it, looking down at it. Then 
she got her violin, and told him things. And with 
the violin, there came the thought of Dungannon. 
She sent for him and waited, her eyes sparkling. 

“Do you remember faces, Patrick?” she asked, 
holding the photograph behind her. “Do you re¬ 
member faces at all, Patrick ?” 

“Sure, ma’am,” said Dungannon. 

“Then who is that, Dungannon, who is that?” 
said Irene. 

“Oh, by me soul, misthress, by me soul, it’s him¬ 
self an’ no other. It’s himself, the saints preserve 
ye, an’ sore changed. Where is the smile that should 
be, and the roses in his cheeks, and soul phwat kin’ 
av a clout has he got ontil his head? and av all the 
horse ever I seed, that’s the best and the proudest— 
a mare by the head av her! Oh, Saint, would not 
I love to be by his stirrup, little Fin M’Coul that 
cherished me. I wonder av his mother has the like 
av this likeness, or Pate Dol and Mairi? Misthress,” 
said he, looking up, “there is not the greenness and 
freshness in this land that they have over yonder.” 
Dungannon was like a boy getting round his mother. 
“The way the water comes splashing down the hill- 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


191 


side, misthress, in the winter after rain, and the 
sparkle of rain on the leaves of grass. I am thinking 
that some day it will come over me to go back yonder. 
If a man could be living for ever, misthress, the places 
he could be visiting before he died.” 

Irene sat down. 1 ‘Tell me,” she said, in a little 
voice, 4 4 tell me again about him when he was a little 
boy, playing-” 

“Misthress, why will ye vex yourself to be bring¬ 
ing the past before ye, or bringing the future to your 
hand? The past has a glamour over it and the 
future a haze, and the haze will become the glamour, 
but our lives will have passed with the changing. 
If I could do things well in the present, without past 
and future, I think that I would be happy. And 
that,” says Dungannon, “was the way with Gavin 
Douglas. He had all the past before him, the battles, 
the kings and queens, and the warriors; but if there 
was a hen-house to be built, he would build it, like 
a hungry man at a meal. If there was a drain to 
be delved, he digged it to marching songs and the 
spade working in time with the chune. He saw his 
work finished before he began to it, and then he 
worked to that end, never halting.” 

“And how was it with you, Patrick?” said Irene, 
for she must speak to some one who had known Jim, 
some one who believed that dreams could come true. 

“I would be thinking of the fine things I would 
be to do next,” said Patrick, “the things that would 
be making a fortune for me to be giving away among 
the poor, and me maybe away in a win’jammer—a 
sailing-ship, saving your presence.” 

“And will you never go home?” 

“I could not bear to go back to my place yonder 



192 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


without I had the coin. They do be proud folk yon¬ 
der, wid little time for a dreamer.” 

And that made Irene think. Was she only a 
dreamer, seeking a distant happiness that might 
never come? Her friends were married, had little 
children, had new interests in their lives, new work 
and play. Should she burn the photograph, watch 
the flame lick through the pasteboard, and forget 
everything—marry and have a home and children? 
and then, then she thought, then I would meet him, 
and everything would be wrong. No, there was still 
the future, but how much her decision was biassed 
by the thought of the burning photograph, she did 
not think. There came other thoughts. He might 
be married, have forgotten her long ago. She was 
sad at that, but surely married men did not ride with 
Arabian Amirs, except maybe they were Government 
officials, and Government officials would be in some 
kind of uniform. Jim, her Jim, was in Arab dress. 

“Besides,'’ said Irene, “he must be quite young— 
just a boy. ’ * 

And there was another thing which Irene would 
have died rather than tell to her dearest friend. 
Often at night, after a function, she would sit with 
a writing-block on her knees and write to him, telling 
him how she wearied for him, telling him how he had 
spoiled everything for Irene, because that she could 
not hear him laugh at her, or see him frown in im¬ 
patience ; because that she could not touch him with 
her hands, or caress him with a look. Did she see 
his photograph, she made a little kissing mouth to 
it. She became wondrous soft and less imperious; 
she took delight in her friends’ babies, loving their 
little clinging hands. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


193 


Young mothers laughed the one to the other. Irene 
would marry, Irene the haughty, Irene the proud, 
with little children about her! Well, that was the 
weather-vane. Matrimony was indicated. They made 
little private bets with their husbands; they quizzed 
Irene, but got only a soft little smile, whereas they 
expected a scornful laugh, or a careless shrug. 

But Irene was thinking, since Dungannon’s talk. 
Was she letting things drift?—like the Arab who 
trusted that Allah would find the strayed camels, 
instead of himself searching. If she were really the 
woman she had tried to become, the efficient woman, 
the reasoning woman, what course would she pursue 
now? Would she go somewhere nearer where her 
man was? No place was very far away now, if one 
had money. Her father would enjoy sailing any¬ 
where. The voyage could be easily arranged. Was 
that what the efficient woman would do? She 
thought of all the little letters she had written to 
Gavin, and burned. Might not she have written long 
ago?—but she had not wished to write long ago. She 
had not known this craving until she had seen the 
Arab Amir. She had been content to dream, to make 
herself a fit mate for such a man as her boy in armour; 
but now this longing assailed her like a hunger. 
Then she wrote a line and sealed the envelope hur¬ 
riedly, her face very dark. “His father on the Rock 
must know where to direct his letters,” said Irene, 
and posted her letter herself lest some ill-luck be¬ 
fall it. 

But long she waited for an answer. 

James Douglas lifted that letter again and reread 
the address aloud to his wife. 


194 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“My dear,” said he, “who will that be 
from?” and he handed Janet Erskine Irene’s 
letter. 

“A young lady’s writing, James,” said she, “and 
from America. I wonder if Gavin is on his road 
home, and the letter here before him.” 

Douglas smiled. “I think not,” said he. “Why 
1 please redirect’?” 

“Well,” said Janet, “we’ll leave it till the doctor 
comes, for he will be over this fine calm day—a pet 
day,” for it was winter, and fine calm days are not 
very common on the West Coast. 

“Well,” said Douglas, “we will go down to the 
jetty, for I think Pate will soon be back with the 
paper,” and they left the house and walked over the 
short turf, where the white frost had not melted, to 
the shore. 

The doctor was on the jetty already. He waved, 
and then— 

“I’ve been to the town,’’ he cried heartily. * 1 What 
do you two love-birds think of that ? Has he stopped 
flirting with you?” said he to Janet. 

“Now, doctor,” said Janet, “we’re sedate settled- 
down people for years and years. Come to the house 
and see a letter that’s come for Gavin, and then tell 
me what took you to the town.” 

* 1 The law took me, ’ ’ said the doctor, 11 that ass, the 
law, waled me out from among my chrysanthemum 
cuttings and my dahlia roots, and my cold frames 
and my potato-beds, and my books and my slides, 
and made me sit on a jury, or forfeit one hundred 
marks Scots.” 

“Dear me,” said Janet; “and how much is that 
in real money, as the American lady said? And 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


195 


talking of American ladies, show Ludovie Gavin’s 
letter, James.” 

The doctor looked at the letter, turned it over and 
examined the seal, examined the postmark, and put 
it down. 

“Well,” said he, turning to Douglas, “this will be 
from the lass that Mairi always told us would coup 
the creel.” 

“But where will we send it?” said Douglas. 
“We’ve had one telegram from Gavin since he left 
us four years ago.” 

“We’ll send it to Gavin,” said Campbell. “Lis¬ 
ten,” said he, and rolled himself a cigarette. “I vis¬ 
ited every shipping firm in the city with boats sailing 
for the East—there aren’t so many. Well, Gavin 
Douglas sailed for the East on the 17th of October, 
four years ago.” 

“For the East?” said Douglas. 

“For Alexandria, to be precise. Sholto’s letter 
was posted in Alexandria, and that’s why I tried the 
East. That’s just the daft plan that any boy would 
have made, with Gavin’s romantic schooling—be off 
to get Sholto.” 

“But this letter is from America,” said Janet; 
“what does than mean, doctor? If he went to 
Alexandria, who would know him in America? Of 
course, of course,” she cried, “there would be hun¬ 
dreds to know him—tourists.” 

“And when I found what ship he sailed in, I began 
to be a detective in earnest. I know his bankers.” 

“Bankers?” 

“For a trifling expenditure, I found out that also. 
Gavin Sholto Alexander William James Archibald 
has an account with Messrs. Thomas & Sons, Cairo, 


196 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


and branches. Well, we’ll send bis letter there. Is 
it not reasonable to expect that they will know 
where to forward it to? And,” said he, 44 there are 
two things I would like to know. First is, what is 
in that letter? and the second is, if Gavin found 
Sholto, for I think that he did.” 

‘‘Well, we’ll all write to him for luck, and maybe 
a letter to Sholto could go under cover of his, for 
whatever Sholto may be, he cannot be using that 
name. ’ ’ 

“I think, Ludovic, that you must have been a 
very sound doctor.” 

“I’ve been thinking that myself lately,” said 
Campbell, “and I think that Mairi Voullie Vhor is 
a wonderful liar. Have her in, the old besom,” said 
he, “and Pate with her.” 

“Mairi,” says the doctor, “what became of Gavin’s 
beads, and where did they come from?” 

“They came from the inside of the doll Katherine,” 
said Mairi; “that’s what Gavin told Pate—and he 
has them with him. It it not true, Pate?” 

“These were his words,” said Pate. 

“Ah!” said the doctor, “I had forgotten Katherine 
—association of ideas or something. You remember 
he talked of his wife’s beads, Mairi ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Mairi; “but I never saw his wife. 
No!” 

Pate Dol stooped and tied his shoe. 

“What makes you ask these questions, sir?” said 
he, with a certain dignity. “Do you think that we 
made away with the beads?” and he put his hand 
on Mairi’s shoulder. 

“And that’s the last thing I would ever think of 
Pate Dol,” said Ludovic; “but I met the lighthouse 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


197 


keeper, and we talked of Dungannon, and he told me 
that Dungannon never left the Rock in the light¬ 
house boat. Now, how did he cross ?” 

“I never saw him cross/’ said Pate, a little huskily. 
“I took his dunnage to a yacht that he had signed 
on before the mast. He might have hailed a visitor’s 
pleesure boat.” 

11 Was there a girl on the yacht?” said the doctor. 
“You remember the gentleman that came after the 
accident to ask how Gavin did?”—this to Douglas. 

Pate paused a moment, and then— 

“If Mairi saw no wife,” said he, “I saw no girl, 
but only Dungannon and the American gentleman 
and the sailors-” 

“Well, well,” said Douglas, “we must just wait 
till Gavin thinks to let us know.” 

In the kitchen Mairi came close to Pate. 

“He’ll never cast up clype to us,” said she. “I 
wonder if yon girl was his wife.” 

“And,” says Pate, “I’m wondering if a married 
wife is a girl. I doubt Mairi, we re both liars, 
said he. 

“If we’re the liars, we’re no the makers,” said she. 
“God, but Pate, you’re clever. I was waiting for 
you to say something clever, but you were by- 
ordinar’.” 



CHAPTER Y. 

TELLS OF A WILD NIGHT RIDE AND TWO WOMEN. 

Often the Amir Abdul would be with Sholto Douglas, 
always awaiting news of his old foe Mohammed the 
Usurper, who had cast him from his inheritance and 
ruled in his father's place. And Gavin began to look 
for his coming, and to know his limber figure afar off, 
for the Amir Abdul was tall like his race—tall and 
graceful and slow-moving 1 . His features had a Semitic 
cast, a little heavier than the thinly-chiselled Bedouin 
face, but on it was strength and stability and resolu¬ 
tion portrayed, as well as the fire and patience of 
the desert riders. This man would never grow gross 
and unwieldy, though dignity and breath of age 
would come, but the Prince would die a limber man 
and a horseman. Watching him gazing with some¬ 
thing of the dreamer in his eye, gazing across the red 
sands as Ishmael may have gazed at the setting of the 
sun, Gavin remembered all the stories that Sholto 
Douglas had told him of this man. Born to greatness, 
he had been cast out like Ishmael in his tender years, 
cast out by the ruthless power of that fierce usurper 
Mohammed who now lay sick unto death, with his 
sons round him—a stricken lion that had left no cub 
fit to batten on his kill, fit to hurl his roaring challenge 
across the plain: there was in Gavin a pity for that 
198 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


199 


brave old man holding death at hay, listening with 
a sneering smile to the wiles of his women, for their 
sons’ advancement. Of all his sons, was there none 
to leap to saddle and raise his father’s sword. Bah, 
he had no son, but the whelps of tame hounds, with 
fear in their blood for the lash of the master’s voice, 
with cunning words, and cloying dreams of women 
on hot nights, weaklings and sick around him; and 
in the desert somewhere, a lean hard man, hard as 
the rocks, and patient as death, with the power of 
leading men to splendid deeds. Sometimes, Sholto 
had said, sometimes in the night, the speed only of 
his horse had saved Abdul, the splendid speed of 
the horses of Nedj, the Arab of Arabs. With distant 
tribes in the Syrian desert, he had lived hard, sleep¬ 
ing on bare ground, his followers few, his friends 
afraid, and always, always the one idea—onward to 
his father’s hold. The Turk had given presents to 
Mohammed his oppressor, presents and power. The 
nations were cold to the young Amir. How easy to 
become a Pretender, the romantic head of a lost 
cause; how easy and how pleasant, the lingering 
romance of a splendid failure. Poets would sing of 
it, women dream long dreams. There were women in 
the Amir’s life, women of proud clans, ancient as his 
was ancient, powerful as allies, yet always he rode 
alone. His hand was readier on the haft of his spear 
than on the head of a maid; his knees yearned more 
for the quick bound of a steed, than for the soft hands 
of a mother and child. So had he lived, seeking always 
the hour of weakness in his old enemy, storming into 
the caravans like a bitter wind, maiming and hacking 
and riding off with booty, besetting the straight ways, 
lying like an adder in Mohammed s path, watchful in 


200 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


the night, knowing always that his hour would come, 
believing always that in that hour he would conquer. 

‘ ‘I think,’’ said Gavin, “that your Amir is like 
Judah. There is something solid and manly and 
human about Judah, but yet there is a kind of list¬ 
lessness in him whiles. I like not his way of sagging 
in cushions like a maid with the green-sickness.” 

Douglas laughed. “The desert has its mark on 
you already, ’ ’ said he , < * and that man is of the desert 
two thousand years. Judge not till you see him fight. 
They’ll travel fast, that ride with the Prince. Wealth 
did not spoil the lad, nor disaster embitter the man. 
There goes victory where he rides, and yon long- 
limbed horseman could break ye with his hands.” 

Never before had Gavin heard his uncle speak in 
such a tone of bitterness. He flushed darkly, his 
eyes sparkled with quick anger, and Douglas saw his 
long hands clench, and laughed in his heart. 

“I think perhaps he could,” said Gavin, “but my 
poor strength is at his service,” and he bowed very 
slightly, but his uncle held out his hand. 

“And that is how a Douglas should answer,” said 
he. “The Prince is no more weight than Ali bin 
Ali, and you sent him home wanting the head, and 
you could break yon lad across your knees, like a 
faggot; but man, it does me good to stir up the old 
blood, and see a man bridle his anger with courtly 
pride. Abdul is the hope of the desert,” said he, 
“the one man fit to rule a kingdom, the man that 
the dwellers in villages will acclaim, the man that 
the desert-born will hail as king. The Turk has guile 
and the German has gold, but neither guile nor gold 
will turn the sword of Abdul. There are railways in 
the game, and Jews, and bankers in Europe, and 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


201 


British prestige, for Britain has lighted these coasts 
and policed these shores for long, and the Prince leans 
to Britain; but he’ll prove himself a man before the 
nations, and before long, and all because of one idea, 
‘onward, and my father’s throne.’ ” 

The three men would sit far into the night, Gavin a 
little apart, listening to his uncle’s scheming, marvel¬ 
ling at his knowledge of distant tribes—of the moving 
of flocks, of the flooding of dry wadies, of the towns 
on the fringe of the desert where the flock-masters 
and wandering herdsmen did their business of trad¬ 
ing; for there is this similarity between Jew and 
Arab, that both love lucrative trading, that simi¬ 
larity and many others, and looking at the dark 
eyes of the Amir, Gavin was struck with the sad¬ 
ness in them and the longing. He remembered that 
the old Stuart kings had that sadness in their eyes, 
that bound man to their cause till all was lost, and 
after. And this night Sholto Douglas was on his 
hobby and riding hell for leather. Europe was a 
stack of powder—some fool would drop a match, or 
some knave would tell the fool to strike a match, to 
see into the dark. He cried havoc and let loose the 
dogs of war in Belgium, he moved armies and drew 
great battles. There was a light in his eyes that re¬ 
minded Gavin of his father (sitting before the drift¬ 
wood fire with the books of history by him, and the 
maps and plans of battles), and always Sholto con¬ 
jured up a new kingdom in Arabia, free from the 
shackles of the Turk. He harped on light cavalry, in 
the greatest of all cavalry countries; of camel con¬ 
voys carrying water for the fiery Arab mares, for 
hidden water could be found by boring, and great 


202 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


wells made; of wood and canvas they should be 
made, with guards on duty by day and night. Had 
not Abdul cavalry as efficient as the light horsemen 
of the border, fleeting like the morning mists, eating 
little and seldom, carrying three days’ food? There 
were beautiful rifles in the black tents, stout square 
boxes of ammunition below the sanded floors, and 
stories in hidden pits. All night the Amir sat on his 
cushions listening, smiling his slow smile, a slow tired 
smile, and when the Scotsmen rose to leave him, he 
bowed to Gavin. 

“To-morrow I will see your troops,” said he, “and 
you, my hard-bitten friends of the saddle. My people 
have a proverb, ‘ Starve your dog and he will follow, 
feed and he will bite you.’ It is true, I think—to¬ 
morrow we shall see.” He rose and bowed gravely, 
touching his forehead, and his breast, but Gavin saw 
that when he mentioned his hard-bitten friends of 
the saddle, his hand closed round the hilt of his 
dagger and the blade gleamed, and in that moment 
something of the driving power of the man seemed 
for a little to manifest itself, as though a leopard had 
ceased its long striding and unsheathed its claws. 

On the morrow, with the sun yet low and his rays 
level, Gavin led his cavalry past a saluting base, for 
to Douglas, such a parade was meat and drink. 
There was a tremendous joy in dressing his troops, in 
seeing rider and horse sway in unison, the men sure 
of themselves and prideful of efficiency, the horses 
a fire of restrained impatience. At the walk, at the 
trot, he swept by the Amir, who gravely saluted, 
unmoved by the shrill cries of his followers, by the 
plunging of his mare. As the cavalry advanced again 
in line, at the gallop, knee to knee, the horses scream- 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


203 


ing and the men silent, Gavin’s sword flashed in the 
sun. Then the great roar of his men caused the 
horses of the Amir’s followers to leap wildly, but it 
was as though the battle-shout galvanised their 
leader. His mare leapt forward to meet the charge. 
The Arab sat like a prince, like a warrior, like a 
leader of warriors. Gavin halted his troop, and rode 
up, and saluted. He noted the sparkle in the Amir’s 
eye, the flush on his cheek, the joy in his voice. 

‘ 1 When I ride into my father’s hold, by Allah you 
shall ride at my bridle hand,” said he, then slowly 
he dismounted from his beautiful chestnut mare. 
** Take this gift from my hand, ’ ’ said he, and fondled 
the mare’s head as she nuzzled him; “her race has 
carried kings since the days that our father Ishmael 
warred; her Hujja is more ancient than the most 
noble of the families in Europe.” 

As Gavin bowed his thanks for the gift, the Amir 
sprang to a waiting horse with a shrill cry. His 
followers closed round him. Then the wild powder- 
play began—a game for horsemen, for skilful riding, 
when horses are maddened and leaping wildly, and 
the ease of the rider is the pledge of his horseman¬ 
ship,—noise and clamour and horses rearing and leap¬ 
ing, mimic charge and ragged volleying—a play of 
battle, a game for warriors fit to ride in battle; and 
Gavin, watching, knew not that his eye had noted 
every rise that would cover dismounted men, every 
hillock that would screen his cavalry. 

“I could crush him like an orange in my hand,” 
he whispered, and then, “it’s a good thing I’m on 
his side.” 

And that day, with the sinking sun, came a rider 
on a white camel, a fast beast, wearied with long 


204 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


travel, and with sweat stains showing. His rider 
had no more than dismounted, when the poor beast 
barracked, seeking neither food nor water. The Amir 
received the messenger, his lips smiled, his eyes lit 
up, and yet the warrior first gave thanks to Allah. 

The hour was come: Mohammed, the tyrant, was 
dead among his women, and a Vice-Regent ruled in 
his stead. 

"To-night,” said Sholto Douglas, "to-night you 
ride for your father’s hold.” 

"To-night,” said the Amir, and his eyes were no 
longer dreaming, "to-night I ride under the guns 
of the British fleet. I will wash my charger’s feet in 
the sea that breaks on the shores of the sands, and 
then Britain will know that I am a man and deal 
with me as a man.” 

In the darkness, lit only by a half-moon, Abdul 
paraded his men. Here was no time for a great 
battle—hours were precious. He would ride, ride, 
ride—spur and spare not, into Reyad, where lay the 
dead Mohammed. With one hundred men ready to 
die, the Amir would be in his father’s keep by the 
dawn. There would be the noise of music, and the 
singing of maidens in the tents of the Anazol, in the 
Syrian desert—Bedouin poets would sing of this wild 
night ride; but that was for dreams. The Amir was 
become a new man. He leaned forward in the saddle; 
he rallied his men. To Gavin he was just the joy of 
daring, a wild flame leaping on. There were riders on 
the flank and in front, eyes in the night for an enemy, 
but unheeding, the Amir swept on, his eyes burning. 

The riders spoke not, except a harsh word to their 
horses; jackals fled from bleached bones scattered 
on the white sand, the horses’ necks were outstretched, 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


205 


the reins loose. In the dark shadow of a deep wadi, 
where still a little water remained, the troop halted. 
The Amir, -unable to stand still, burning for action, 
strode up and down on the shingly sand by the water. 
The horses drank a little, the men stood in groups 
by them, watching their chief, watching Gavin, who 
stood on the farther hank, black against the light, 
towering beside his horse, black, silent, still, his eye 
on the road that he should ride. His own men smiled 
the one to the other. You see him there, beside a 
dry wadi, black in white moonlight, the bare sands 
stretching away and away at his feet. In the dark¬ 
ness of the river-bed, the little group of men and 
horses rested, and the Amir strode up and down by 
the water, that broke into little points of light as it 
might be the jewels of a crown. Came also the vision 
of a woman, a woman of the Bedouin, no dweller in 
cities, but of the wild lawless folk, sprung from kings, 
fit to bear princes. The Amir stopped his march, 
his eyes rested long on the black towering figure by 
the farther bank. 

“His sword is at my bridle hand—yet he could 
claim his father’s brother’s child without dowry.” 
Such was the law. Having seen the men, let us look 
for a moment at the women. 

In her bare room, by an open window, Marjory 
Douglas gazed over the desert, over the trail the night 
raiders rode. She saw the Amir, lean and hard, 
holding his restraint with an iron hand, steadying 
himself that his men keep cool till the hour came to 
strike; a man with one aim, a man of many vic¬ 
tories, whose name was sung in the tents of the 
Syrian desert, proud as Lucifer, a horseman, a poet, 


206 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


a dreamer, a warrior. Surely a man that woman 
would love to honour. And at his bridle arm, still 
like a tower, buttressed about with strength, that 
other of her father’s house. There would be a song 
at his lips, and his eyes dancing, and oh! he would 
hurl himself into battle like a thunderbolt, over¬ 
bearing, laughing, over-riding his enemy, his voice 
raised, and after—after, gentle again and smiling. 
Long she sat with two men in her vision, till the 
moon sank. In her garden were little noises among 
the acacias and the cactuses, only these little stirrings, 
and the silence of the sands. 

In far New York the people came in great concourse 
in aid of charity—a charity bazaar. Millionaires, 
looking humble and drab beside their resplendent 
women, moved this way and that, smiling a fixed 
smile, and lavished money, that the little children 
of squalid slums might see the sun without the shad¬ 
ows of crowded buildings, without the smoke- 
pall from the steel-works of millionaires, without 
smelling the black smoke from the automobiles of 
the rich. There is a place set apart, a place of mystery, 
a place with carpets hanging and shaded lights, a 
place smelling of myrrh and anbar—there is low 
barbaric music, and the nervous laughing of women, 
afraid of what the future may reveal, but daring all 
under a mask of unbelief. And within the hanging 
mats, and eastern rugs, a bored woman, dark-eyed 
and observant, rakes in money “for the dirty little 
urchins that must, forsooth, see the sun. And 
in this laughing throng moves Irene Savage, fresh 
as a rose with the dew of morning on it, with 
laughter ready for her kind, a petted child of 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


' 207 


fortune, taking everything as her right with charm¬ 
ing grace, attended by many, young and old, and 
one little women like a bird horn in a cage, always 
near her. To Irene came Molly Stuvesant, laughing, 
red-lipped, with white teeth flashing, with hair still 
ready for rebellion, Molly Stuvesant, now a young 
matron, but joyous as of old. 

“Do have your fortune told,” she cried, and whis¬ 
pered amidst her laughing to Irene, and slipped her 
marriage-ring from her finger. And Irene encircled 
her finger with the ring, smiling to the young men, 
with a touch of coquetry, and then approached the 
tent of the sorceress, and laughing, extended her hand 
and asked of her husband. These are the women. 

• •••••• • 

Before the first flush of dawn the horsemen ride 
to the city on the desert fringe, a city of wailing for 
the dead Lion, Mohammed, a city of speedy messen¬ 
gers going and coming, a city of intrigue and dagger- 
work, an Eastern city. At the gateway Turk and 
Arab are on guard. The Amir’s scouts rejoin the 
main body, and report that the gate is guarded. The 
Amir halts, cursing the delay, but Gavin rides on in 
the darkness. At the mud and stone wall of the city 
he is busied for a little. In the darkness at his feet, 
the little red stars of a burning fuse leap up and die. 
His work over, Gavin gallops back to his troop. 

“Allah will open a gate,” so he speaks to the 
Amir, and gathers his men round him; and then, 
with the crash of the blasting, and the red glare of 
light, he launches himself at the main gate, his own 
troopers with him. 

“Allah has opened your gate,” he cries; “I go 
to open mine.” 


208 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


There is a startled guard standing to arms, terror- 
struck with the roar of the explosion. At them Gavin 
leads his men, roaring; no time for nice work with 
a sword, with ragged volleys at close range. He is 
swallowed up in battle, as a ship is closed around with 
storm. Hacking, and hewing, and slaying; his horse 
falls under him, but his long sword mows like a 
reaper’s hook. The guard flees and rallies doggedly, 
and flees again—broken. Lights are flashing in Mo¬ 
hammed’s palace. The divided bands join, Gavin on 
a trooper’s horse at the Amir’s bridle-rein. In the 
courtyard soldiers rally to the voice of the Vice- 
Regent, and into them Gavin thunders, his sword high. 

“Your day is done,” he cries, and thrusts the Vice- 
Regent through the throat. . . . 

The Amir Abdul’s flag blows out bravely on a spear 
on the topmost tower. Below, beside the body of 
Mohammed, the Amir stands, with hate in his eyes, 
and his hand on his sword. Gavin wonders will he 
strike the dead. 

“Ye cast me into the wilderness athirst for my 
blood. My father ye made homeless, seeking refuge 
from friends;” and then, with a great salute from 
his curved red sword, “by Allah, I pray my son 
be such as wert thou,” said the Amir Abdul. 

“And that was right and decent,” says Gavin. 

News spreads quickly, and from the sands came 
the comrades of the Amir, thronging the city of the 
palm gardens. Sheikhs and their followers came to 
renew friendships made in the days of adversity. It 
was a keen pleasure to Gavin to watch the Amir, the 
tireless rider, the leader of guerilla troops, the smiter 
of caravans (having proclamed his accession), become 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


209 


the crafty statesman. There were sheikhs with whom 
Gavin had fought, that looked but coldly on him, 
yet the Amir turned their scowls to smiles with 
his tales of the fight by the gateway, of the fight 
in the courtyard, and the scaling of the palace walls. 
He had every sheikh’s wish, every sheikh’s ambition 
in his mind. He played them one against the other, 
and Sholto Douglas came later ready as ever with 
cunning advice. 4 ‘Where peace would breed jealousy 
and dissensions, war, red war, would weld the tribes 
together.” 

On the south of the city was a plain of scanty 
grass, and there in early morning Gavin drilled his 
troops, extended his band with men of dignity, sons 
of sheikhs, and the Amir would ride there often with 
a small guard, and with his smile and kingly bearing, 
draw the hearts of men to him. The days of peace 
were fast cloying on the desert warrior. His hatred 
of the Turk was too bitter. The province of Hasa 
was under his sword. He would drive the Turk from 
keep after keep. Victory would be with him, and 
Gavin would be the tower of strength; the men 
rallied to him, in fight; he would be the driving 
force. 

And then started the years that Gavin Douglas 
lived in the saddle: his cavalry appeared at dawn, 
and at midday the smoke of his burning blotted out 
the sun. Bitter was his fighting, bitter and ruthless 
as the Amir himself. When horsemen were useless, 
he attacked with infantry. Night attack or night 
march, victory went with him, and while the Amir’s 
personality held the tribes together, surer than any 
law of force, the herdsmen at their noonday rest 
told the great deeds of the Amir’s leader, who feared 


210 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


not the darkness, neither gave place to any man in 
battle. The Amir stormed into the province of Hasa 
that had been the patrimony of his people, and drove 
the weak garrisons out, established his rule to the 
shores of the sea, as he had promised, while the 
Turk in Constantinople wondered that there were 
none of the breed of the old Lion, Mohammed, to stay 
his power. But while the Lion’s cubs snarled and 
fought among themselves, the lean desert man, the 
man who had tasted bitter fortune and defeat, who 
knew the joys of wealth and victory, listened to that 
wise old smeller of battles, Sholto Douglas. The 
Amir Abdul’s caravans were in the desert, seven 
hundred camels strong, carrying corn and oil, and 
wine and robes, from the towns to the palace. There 
were guests always to be entertained, there were 
horses to ride. Abdul might dwell with his people 
in peace, if he listed, but Europe was ready for a 
match. The dogs of war were snarling and straining 
at their chains. The Turk would ally himself with 
the German, and that would force the hands of 
Britain. There would come war in the Near East. 
Egypt would swarm with troops. Surely there was 
a chance for a man. A free Arab State—pan-Arabia, 
—and the Amir would listen, speaking seldom, smil¬ 
ing his slow smile. 

“When will the Bedouin call the city-dwellers 
brothers? Would my kinsman in the desert with his 
people round him in tenscore tents widely scattered, 
his young men and his old men, his men-servants 
and his women-servants, his greyhounds and his 
hawks, would he, the patriarch, having flocks and 
herds, and camels and asses, more than men could 
number, would he own allegiance to any? Would 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


211 


the Bedouin rider give his daughter in marriage to 
the Arabs by the rivers of Iraq, to the tillers of soil ?— 
but pan-Arabia, it was a great thought, if the leader 
were man enough to hold the scattered tribes and 
the dwellers in cities. 

“I would take your daughter in marriage/’ said 
the Amir, ‘‘for my heart turns to her more than any 
other, and my house is builded again. Yet there 
should be many sons before a man is too old to lead 
the lads in the ways of the desert.’’ 

“Have you spoken to my daughter?” said Douglas, 
“spoken of love or marriage?” 

The Amir smiled. “When I was an axile, so would 
you not have spoken, my friend. I have eaten your 
salt. Shall I then look about secretly to do ye an 
ill? Nay, but I waited, thinking your brother’s son 
might take her to wife, but he is wedded to his 
sword. ’ ’ 

“To your sword, surely,” said Douglas. “Let us 
speak no more of this until I have spoken to the 
maid.” 

Alone the old soldier thought bitter thoughts. 
Marjory, his daughter, flesh of his flesh, to wed an 
Arab—Amir or no,—yet always that had been in his 
mind until Gavin came, Gavin that he loved as a 
son, Gavin always in the forefront of battle when 
battle was toward—no David had set him there; 
that was his birthright, the heritage of his blood 
and name. Would Gavin always remain here in the 
desert, or would the cold North call, as it had called 
the outcast on hot nights? Would Gavin be content 
to give his life in another’s service, to build new 
roads, to conquer the sands, striving to stamp the 
stable North on the shifting sands, to bring water 


212 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


from hidden depths, that flocks might not wander 
from pasture to pasture, but remain in green fields, 
even if the hedges should be camel-thorn? Would 
the wild desert riders ever become stolid farmers, 
giving up their tents for houses builded of brick, and 
set among gardens of palms, watered from rivers or 
from deep wells? 

And Gavin, camped at an oasis close to the 
shore, led his Arabs to the sea. A little way from 
his men, he stripped, and the wind blew the sand 
over his clothes in little trickles. First of his 
troop, he sped into the water, plunging forward 
to meet the great breakers, and on the shore the 
Arabs stripped less quickly, with much laughter. 
Their bodies were scarred with wounds, but powerful, 
with rippling muscles. They loved the water. Sud¬ 
denly the white man left his swimming hurriedly; 
his soldiers were shaving the hair from their bodies. 
He knew that such their religion demanded, but a 
feeling of loathing came over him. To bathe with 
such men—horrible! He dressed hurriedly, hating 
the soft sand that clung everywhere, that had covered 
his heap of clothing in this little while. He had been 
too long in the desert; his manhood clamoured for 
white folk to see, to move among. At the head of 
his troop, he thought suddenly of home, of the cold 
sea splashing on the shore of the Rock, of the pleasant 
days of rain, rain that never fell here for months and 
months, rain that washed the very green leaves and 
brought new beauties to the hills. He had been in 
the Amir’s service for years, and he felt that he 
had grown old. There was nothing worth while. 
Cities had lost their old-time interest—Baghdad, 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


213 


Damascus, the market cities of the sheikhs were alike 
distasteful. His flocks were not real beasts at all— 
the sheep were not like the old sheep on the Rock, 
the cattle were not like the old cattle. He wondered 
why he was in this land at all, if he were in this land 
at all, or if he dreamed? He girned at himself and 
fought with his horse. 


CHAPTER VI. 


TELLS HOW GAVIN GREW HOMESICK. 

The Amir leaned over an open map, his face grave, 
but Gavin strode back and forward, back and for¬ 
ward, his hands clasped behind his back, a frown 
on his brow. 

“ Where there is a weak garrison/’ said he, ‘‘ smite 
there/ ’ 

The Amir smiled. “Be calm, be calm; so have 
we smitten/ ’ 

‘‘There will be a reckoning,’’ said Gavin. “The 
Turk will bolster up your enemies. Now is the time 
to strike, before the Turk marches against you. 
Break your enemy, and Constantinople will lavish 
gifts on you, for peace’ sake. I hate to swither,” said 
he aloud. 

“The Turk seeks to weaken the Arab,” said the 
Amir, “to breed strife, to break confederacies in the 
desert. Britain will move soon,” said he. “Britain 
cannot always remain aloof, for my horses have 
splashed on the shores, and Britain stands at the ends 
of the seas.” 

The guerilla leader was become politician. His 
mind was occupied with the future—his dark eyes 
dreamy,—but Gavin was concerned with the present. 

214 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


215 


Kingdoms come and go, but horses must have forage, 
men must have food. No detail was too trivial for 
him: a lame horse was of greater moment than a 
dream of future power. His force must be perfect; 
the horses must be groomed; the armed tribesmen 
drilled. 

With Sholto Douglas he schemed, using all his 
cunning, all the old-time tricks of war, modelling his 
force on Sholto’s word of what a British force was 
in the old days. Himself, he would have chosen 
Cromwell for a model, but the wild Arab could not 
go into action with a psalm on his lips and death 
in his hands. The scattered volley, the wild charge 
at dawn, in these the Amir delighted; but Gavin 
wanted order—even in battle,—the plan worked out 
before hand, and always, always the happy chance 
for a daring coup. 

Speed and secrecy—these were his watchwords, 
and for that horses were essential. There was long 
riding in the night and hidden camps, supplied by 
fast camels. The sheikhs were with them, the great 
camel breeders, using the Amir as the adder in the 
path of the Turk. These lent them aid, the more 
readily when victory after victory fell to Abdul. 
Round camp-fires, on the green uplands of Syria, 
the fame of Abdul was noised, and always at his 
bridle hand the stranger who battled with joy in 
his countenance, and swift death in his blade the 
cunning one—he who would creep up at night, and 
storm a garrison in the dark. 

Gavin was a communer with spirits in secret 
ways, riding with only a servant to visit the places 
of tombs, or the ruins of forgotten castles. The tales 
went sounding through the forbidding lands. In the 


216 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


streets of Damascus, merchants cursed their slaves 
by the wrath of the stranger. By the shores of the 
Red Sea his fame was known, and eastward even to 
Baghdad. 

But there came a new factor into his life. Suddenly 
it came, as a cloud over the sun, and leaving a dim¬ 
ness. For years he had lived in the saddle, slept 
hard and ridden long, glorying in conflict, for years 
since the night ride and the capture of Reyad. Now 
camped by an oasis, the horses settled, the guards 
posted, he sat alone. Again he thought of the bathing 
—and grued. 

Without a clear moon rode in the heavens, the 
sands were white. At no great distance there were 
a mare and foal grazing in the night. Gavin looked 
at the slender beauty of the foal, heard the talking 
of his men, listened to a weird song of a watcher in 
the lines, a weird song and mournful. Little lights 
lit up straggling low fig-trees, making a beautiful 
tracery. His chestnut mare was lying down, her head 
stretched out, her lips a little open, showing her 
teeth. He looked round his tent and summoned a 
servant to bring coffee. He felt desperately lonely. 
He looked at his Arab clothes, at the carpets in his 
tent. He wanted speech with some one, not his 
smiling obsequious servant, not the Amir, some one 
who could speak English. What was he doing in 
this wilderness, this place of unending strife ? Again 
he wondered if he really was here in the desert, 
away from his people: his people—his home seemed 
away and away, and he knew not the homeward path. 

Then he had his mare saddled, and galloped head¬ 
long through the night. Was this the sickness for 
home, the sickness of the exile? He cursed his self- 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


217 


pity, his weakness—a child crying for the moon,— 
but all that night he lay thinking of his home on the 
Kock. Did Pate Dol miss him? Did old Mairi 
weary, and sigh by the fire in the kitchen? Did his 
father look wistfully at the old books of his school¬ 
ing? Did Ludovic dig his little parks as of yore? 
His mother—was she well and happy, with her 
books ? 

In the morning he rose ill-tempered, with anger 
held down with difficulty. Well for Gavin that that 
day the Amir rode fast and far. He felt himself 
imprisoned, he that had thought himself free as the 
birds. He was chained to this land, and he hated it— 
the sand, and the heat, and the fever, the brackish 
water of desert wells, and the flat bread. 

The mood passed with action, but Gavin waited, 
afraid of its return. Was this Dungannon's curse? 
he wondered. The Amir Abdul noted the black frown 
on the brow of his lieutenant, heard the impatient 
snarl in his voice to horse and man. 

4 ‘Here is a man sick of the desert," said he, and 
summoned Gavin to his guest tent. 

“The spring stirs in your blood, my friend. The 
dry lands become abhorrent. Go, then, to the house¬ 
hold of your father's brother for a little space, and 
tarry ye there until the spring be past." 

Gavin would have spoken, but the Amir raised his 
delicate hand. 

“I know also the turmoil of young blood at the 
time of the mating of birds," said he with a smile, 
and then his lean jaw went forward, “and I stilled 
the turmoil in the sands." 

And, looking at the Arab, tall and wide-shouldered, 
the bold-featured aquiline face, the prominent lips, 


218 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Gavin knew that here was a man who had mastered 
himself, had cast from him all weakness, all vain 
longings, and yet a man who, in leisure, could still 
dream. 

“Is there no one of your father’s blood to quell 
the spring awakening?” said the Amir, and at that 
Gavin saw the Arab and not the man. 

“There is that gathering in the North will quell 
any turmoil, ’ ’ said Gavin. Nevertheless he journeyed 
to the white house among the palm-trees, and felt 
that it was homecoming. 

And Marjory was full of laughter to have him back, 
full of little tales of horses and children. Her dark 
lips smiling, she questioned him of the beautiful 
women of his campaigning, “for there must have 
been beautiful women,” said Marjory. 

“None so fair as you,” said Gavin, smiling back to 
the joyous girl. 

“None so dark, Gavin,” but Marjory was smiling. 

And Sholto Douglas looked on content. There 
had been offshoots of the Douglas line before: there 
were Douglases established in Italy, and noble, before 
the Bleeding Heart had been added to the shield— 
they were the Scoti of Italy. There were Douglases 
in Dantzig, there was a Douglas Gate in Dantzig, 
why not—why not a Douglas branch in the desert? 
The children would be reared in the desert, would 
be horsemen and leaders, commanding men from their 
youth. They would go to Scotland for their educa¬ 
tion, and return to develop their estates—warriors 
and breeders of horses. What of cousinship? The 
Arab blood of Marjory would only darken the old 
stream, and there would be Black Douglases again, 
nobles and princes in the land. Their seed might 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


219 


spread far—a peerless beautiful race, marrying al¬ 
ways the most beautiful women. . . . 

“Are we not to walk under the trees?” said Mar¬ 
jory, for she felt a restraint indoors. She was afraid 
of long silence. 

“Away with you, then,” said Douglas, “a high 
moon and high spirits. Go out and enjoy the caller 
air.” 

And they walked in the garden, Marjory and Gavin, 
their shadows black on the bath before them. Mar¬ 
jory put her hand on Gavin's arm timidly—of yore 
she was wont to cling to his arm laughing, but there 
was a certain shyness now. 

“Tell me,” she said, “what you thought about 
when you were away. Were your dreams of war and 
more wars? Had you forgotten the horses and the 
herdsmen and—me, Gavin?” 

She looked up at him then; her voice was very 
deep. 

“I used to lie awake,” said Gavin, “and think 
how many horses were sick, or galled, or wounded, 
or how many men were unfit for duty, or if there 
would be enough water at the watering. And some¬ 
times there would be pictures in my mind of an 
attack in the chill dawn and the look of fear on the 
face of a sentry ...” 

“War and horses and men, Gavin! Had you no 
thought of home?” 

And Gavin remembered his homesickness. 

“There was one night, Marjory, one horrible night 
of longing—the Amir called it a turmoil of the spring. 
Would you like to come home, Marjory, to be with 
my father and my mother?” 

“I would not leave my father, Gavin, ever. You 


220 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


would not ask me to leave my father, but,” said she, 
“ would you like to come home with me, Gavin, 
and be with my father and me?” 

“But,” said Gavin, “I am there—this is home. 
I felt content when I was back here again and heard 
you speak.” 

She pressed his arm against her side. 

“Did you, Gavin—well, I’m glad, and I think I 
like you when you are a baby, and I think that you 
were wearying for the sea.” 

“Sometimes,” said Gavin, “I will say to myself— 
the sea is yonder, away on the verge of the skyline, 
and I will be making myself see the crests of white 
breakers. ’ ’ 

“Well, and that is what I like about you—a great 
burly man, with kind, soft thoughts, like a lass. And 
for me, Gavin, I cannot come at these thoughts— 
as my father would say.” 

“And where,” says he, “is the lass that told me 
there was a softness in her after Ali bin Ali got his 
brose?” 

“But I know that now,” she whispered; “I 
thought, and I thought, about that strange feeling 
new to me, and it was because of you—because that 
you were in danger. Had 1 fought,, my finger had 
been steady on the trigger, ’ ’ and at her words, Gavin 
felt a thrill, as it had been a bugle blast. 

“Ente walid wali Bint,” said he—“art thou lad or 
lass?” 

Marjory laughed happily. “Well, I know that 
too,” she cried, “and I know it best when you are 
at home, Gavin. I feel like a little soft Bint then, 
but when you are away, I am a great mannish crea¬ 
ture. I’m far too strong. Look! ’ ’ she cried, stretch- 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


221 


ing out an arm. “Do you think that that would go 
through the staple on a door?” 

* 1 Aye,’’ said Gavin, ‘ ‘ I think that it would—if the 
king were a man like James Stuart—a fighter with 
faithful friends, like Abdul.” 

“You think much of the Amir.” 

“A man,” said Gavin, “a strong man who will 
hold the mesh of the tribes together—a Prince who 
will bring his house to new and greater honour—a 
dreamer who will make his dreams come true, kind 
and brave, courteous and just—who is there to think 
ill of him? and do you know,” said Gavin, “I have 
palm gardens, and corn lands, from him, for payment 
—he was pleased to call it a gift.” 

And Sholto Douglas was grave when Marjory and 
Gavin came in. He had maps and papers before him. 

“I think,” said he, looking up, “that the Amir 
will have won his Bannockburn in a month or two, 
or met his Waterloo. Look,” said he, out of the 
bickering and quarrelling in old Mohammed’s House 
—and that’s the finest way I know of bringing down 
a house—rises the leader, a wild unbroken boy of 
eighteen, unheeding counsel, scorning caution, and 
the Ottoman Government still playing the old game. 
A boy mad to win his spurs, and a Government be¬ 
hind with troops and money—aye, the Turk’s troops 
are massing in the North. It will be boot in saddle 
for ye soon, Gavin, and there will be a battle. This 
will be nae doon wi’ the Whigamores; this will be 
a fight for superiority of fire, and cavalry on the 
flanks girning at each other—you’ll have your work 
with this.” 

“Have you not had war enough?” said Marjory, 
and her eyes were very wide and dark. “I wish 


222 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


that something would happen that would prevent 
your riding away,” but the men were leaning over 
the squared map. 

“The choice of ground should be with us if the 
Amir moves first,” said Gavin. “How many men 
can they muster?” 

Marjory sat, her chin in her hand, her eyes fixed 
on the two men, but as though she did not see them. 
Absorbed in their speculations, they did not see the 
trembling on her face, or the look of resolve that re' 
placed it. 

“We go riding at sunrise?” she questioned, and 
rose, “and I will leave you to your battles.” 

For a long time that night Marjory sat thinking, 
listening to her menfolk’s talking. Now and then she 
would hear Gavin laugh, and some little movement 
would come to her; her hands would clasp, she would 
half-rise, a little smile would come on her face. And 
this boy that had made life a thing of quiet joy, of 
new pleasure, this boy whose face could harden into a 
stern mask, whose face would smile with friendship 
when he but looked at her, this boy would ride away 
again. Could she but ride with him by his side—as 
servant or groom, to be near him in danger, to lie at 
night by the door of his bivouac, to cherish him in 
sickness, if only he would be sick. Marjory’s eyes 
were very soft, her mouth very tender. She had seen 
Gavin sick, had seen him battle with ill-temper, and 
she loved this weakness in him secretly. She had 
laughed in her heart at his flushed face, at the anger 
in his eyes, while her father had treated him for some 
obscure pyrexia. 

“If my leg were broken,” Gavin had said then, “I 
could thole it fine; but to lie here, with this tout 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


223 


that Mairi at home would cure with a jelly drink/ ' 
and then through his teeth, “out of a rosy jug from 
the high shelf." 

She remembered him then and his words. 

“Laugh away, Gipsy, laugh away," and she had 
laughed in sheer happiness. 

“If my leg were broken"—if his leg were broken. 
Then he would not ride away, taking the sunshine 
with him, leaving her to stand at barred windows 
with only sadness for company, sadness and empti¬ 
ness. If only his leg were broken! 

Now there are in horses as many different humours 
and foibles and tricks, as there are in man—there 
are those that will fight the spur, and those that 
bound from it in terror; those that will kick at the 
stirrup, and those that will sidle away on approach, 
or spin round and round, or rear up. Every rider 
knows of those tricks, and many more, and the likes 
and dislikes of his horse. 

And there is another trick with some horses that 
is whiles comical, and whiles tragic. Touch such a 
horse behind the saddle, between the cantle and the 
croup, and he will lash out with his heels quick as a 
reflex. With some a loose strap-end playing on the 
back will set them off; with others the light pressure 
of the finger. This is a fine trick for clearing crowds. 

Marjory was mounted when Gavin joined her the 
next morning. Her face was pale, her eyes dark- 
ringed as though she had had a sleepless night. She 
did not look at him after the first low greeting. 
Gavin's servant, Mahmud, stood at his chestnut’s 
head. 

Gavin took the reins, and Mahmud stood aside. 


224 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“I think my mare is lame,” said Marjory, and set 
her mount fidgeting. She was measuring the dis¬ 
tance. Gavin stood square by his mare’s head; his 
glove fell, but he did not stoop to pick it up. He 
was looking at Marjory’s beast. 

“Steady her a little and walk,” said he, and at 
that Marjory half-turned in her saddle and touched 
her mount with her open hand, behind the saddle. 

And then there was a wild scream. Gavin’s mare 
bounded aside, her head high. 

Mahmud lay groaning. He had stooped to re¬ 
cover his master’s glove when the mare lashed out. 
His ribs were broken; his master unhurt. 

Gavin carried his servant to the house and left him 
with Sholto Douglas. Mahmud was weeping loudly. 
Marjory could hear the high raised voice. 

“Oh, mis quies, mis quies; body mafeesch, body 
mafeesch.” 

“Come on, Marjory,” said Gavin, “Mahmud will 
be all right. Don’t greet over spilt milk.” 

“If it had been you,” she said in a low voice; 
“if it had been you!” 

“Well,” said Gavin, “a miss is as good as a mile.” 

“Or as bad ” said Marjory, but Gavin would never 
understand that remark in his lifetime. 

But Marjory became low in her spirit, so that her 
father rallied her. 

“Let us go down into Egypt,” said he, “we three 
and the Amir also, and see white folk and think of 
home.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE AMIR ABDUL AND MARJORY DOUGLAS. 

And while Gavin and Marjory stayed in Cairo, there 
came word that the Amir Abdul sought speech with 
Sholto, and these two were long talking together; 
and that evening Sholto Douglas led the Amir to 
Marjory’s couch. She rose to receive him, and bowed 
to his greeting. 

“Here is a man to do you honour,” said the exile. 
“He will say what is fitting for a man to say, 
and you will listen if you would pleasure your 
father.” 

The Amir took Marjory’s hand. 

“Maiden,” said he slowly, “you are more fair to 
me than the sunrise, more sweet than water springing 
from a rock, beautiful as the rose of Sharon; such 
as you will be the mother of warriors. Beloved, let 
your heart incline to me to wed me, for without you 
the world is desolate as the lands of the Cities of the 
Plain.” 

Marjory stood very still. 

“I thank you,” said she in a low deep voice. “I 
thank you for this honour; but think well—you 
have retrieved your inheritance, you have rebuilded 
your father’s house; but there are women of your 
225 


226 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


kin more fitting—a man is wise who holds his kins¬ 
men about him.” 

The Amir clenched his thin hand. 

“In blood and fire I saw my father’s house go 
down, and what were kinsmen then ? In the heart of 
the desert I found shelter, in the black tents of 
strangers—shall I belittle the stranger that he housed 
me in a tent when my kinsmen’s palaces were closed 
against me, or opened fearfully in secret?” 

Marjory, watching the swarthy face, saw the slow 
sweet smile fade and grim resolve replace it. 

“Here is the man,” she thought. 

“In blood and fire I took revenge. Where was 
my resting-place, where were my piquet lines—the 
neigh of a horse in the black night were easier to 
trace. Was your father a kinsman that he sheltered 
me and succoured me—he, a stranger, not of my 
faith, that he schooled me in war ? ’ ’ 

“But my mother was of your house,” said Marjory. 

“And does her daughter turn from her mother’s 
kindred ? ’ ’ 

Marjory smiled. 

“In one breath,” said she, “your kindred are less 
to be considered than strangers; in the next I must 
cleave to my mother’s kindred.” 

“So does your cousin in a hard fight,” said the 
Amir. “When one road is barred, he opens 
another.” 

“Gavin,” said Marjory. 

The Amir looked long into her eyes. 

“I have watched,” said he, “I have waited in 
silence. The spring came and the summer, the time 
for mating and the time for love. He is in your 
father’s house—always near you, and yet was love 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


227 


awakened in his heart? What were his thoughts 
but war and more war—yet had he no house to build, 
no heritage to secure. Maiden, I fought, I rode far, 
I schemed—but you were with me. Nay, I told him 
I buried my love in the sands, yet in the night secretly 
I watered that love, that it might blossom. I guarded 
it that none should trample it underfoot—until he 
came, the son of your father’s brother, that could 
take you to wife with little dowry; and yet he but 
loved you like a brother—with laughter and joyous¬ 
ness, but not with the love that a woman craves.” 

“I force no love,” said Marjory, her face dark. 

4 ‘Nor only you,” said the Amir; “we have smitten 
many garrisons, we have taken many booties. There 
were slaves fair as the snows on Lebanon, there were 
captives in many cities, and he was young, and fair 
to fill a woman’s eyes, yet did he scorn women, as of 
no account, loving more the welfare of his horses, or 
the comforts of his men. There is but one answer to 
the riddle—somewhere there is a woman fairer than 
all of these.” 

“What have I to do with my cousin’s life?” said 
Marjory, “or his loves? Methinks he earned praise 
because of his care of horse and man—and praise is 
comely in a leader.” 

“Praise! Have I withheld anything from him 
that he desires ? Nay, he has the half of mine honour 
—yet we waste time. So I am not accustomed to 
plead. ’ ’ 

“ I am at a loss to find your meaning, ’ ’ said Marjory. 

There was no slow smile on the Amir’s face; now 
he was become the horseman, the daring rider. 

“In deference to your race,” said he, “I bowed 
before ye, seeking love. All my life I have loved you, 


228 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


and all my life I have taken what I desired. It were 
easy for me to carry you off on my saddle-bow, and 
stay your cries with kisses.” 

“Even so,” said Marjory, “even so I understand, 
even so I would be loved.” 

There was a fire burning in the Amir’s dark eyes. 
His lean brown hand would have drawn her to his 
breast, but the girl stayed him. 

“Listen,” she said; “where is the time now for 
lovers’ dalliance, for womanly dreams of leisure and 
red lips athirst for love ? Nay, but hear me. Throw 
off allegiance to the Turk; send forth couriers to the 
desert sheikhs; raise men and horses, and ride for a 
kingdom. My son, if Allah grant a son to me—my 
son shall be a prince.” 

There was a wild exultation in her tones, yet they 
were not raised, but, as it were, intensified. All her 
father’s stories of the great Douglas house had raised 
a fire in her blood. She believed herself come of 
kings,—at that moment, she was royal. 

‘ ‘ Shall the sire be unworthy of the son ? ’ ’ said she, 
mocking. 

Abdul held himself with an iron hand. Did he 
touch her now, did he but breathe passion, she had 
scorned him. 

He bowed* low before her. ‘ ‘ Has my blade grown 
rusty then in the scabbard? Men say I am wedded 
to war—that war was my first love, that I was 
suckled in strife. They knew me not. Remember 
when you wake in the night, remember, that when I 
could have taken thee in my hands—I suffered thee 
to go free. Judge then the Arab and the man. Yet 
this I swear, that never will ye lie in another’s arms. 
All the world could not hide him from me.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


229 


His passion came near to overmastering the man, 
yet Marjory stood still, her gaze level. 

“Do you covet lovers’ dalliance?” said she. “Be¬ 
hold, there are many maidens awaiting. Surely 
Abdul can have the most rare, the most beautiful,” 
and then in that quiet rousing voice, “but my son 
shall be born a prince.” 

Marjory saw the Amir’s mouth become hard, 
saw also the slow smile in his eyes looking at 
her. 

“I will go,” said he, “at least having loved long 
and well . . 

Then came a softening of her features. 

“Know this,” she whispered, “know this, leaving 
me, that never will I give my love, where love is 

not . . 

“By Allah,” said the Arab,” “your son shall be a 
prince,” and left her. 

Who knows what thoughts consumed Marjory 
Douglas, pacing her room, restless, with lips com¬ 
pressed? Did she dream of Gavin a conqueror? 
Did she visualise again the fight with Ali bin Ali on 
the great grey horse? Did she see the Amir Abdul 
reel in the saddle ? Did she dream like a very woman, 
making impossibilities become real? Was she East 
or West? 

She drove with Gavin in the city, drove to the 
gardens, and sat beside a little lake where water- 
birds swam, and fed noisily on the scraps flung from 
tables. She talked like a boy of horses, of veiled 
women, of racing. Her laughter was ready at her 
lips, and often Gavin found her eyes meeting his 
with a long searching look. 


230 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“Are you troubled with future greatness?” said 
he—f or s he had told him something of the Amir’s 
words,—and flung scraps to the water-fowl, laughing. 
“Will you have time for a poor kinsman without the 
palace, or will it be permitted that I see you some¬ 
times, little Gipsy?” 

“Surely a kinsman may see a—kinswoman,” said 
Marjory; “always a kinswoman, Gavin. But you 
will not stay in this country; there is no bond to 
hold you.” 

“A bond?” said Gavin. “I’ll stay if you require 
me, Gipsy; and speaking of bonds,’’ said he, “I must 
visit my bankers to-day. Will you drive with me, 
or would you rather rest in the shade of a balcony 
like the Eastern ladies—behind little carved fretwork 
lattices?” 

“I will drive with you,” said Marjory, laughing. 
“Am I not nearly as good a man as you?—you tell 
me that often.” 

“And so you are,” said Gavin, “the finest 
little soldier that a man could have for a com¬ 
rade.” 

Marjory was looking at all the Europeans. Some¬ 
times she would touch Gavin, and he would answer 
the touch with, “Yes, that’s a Scot,” or maybe 
hazard a guess at a man’s name—this was a game 
with them, and always Gavin setting out for a drive 
would question Marjory, “Are we playing to-day?” 
and sometimes Marjory would be playing, and some¬ 
times she would tell Gavin that he was only a baby; 
but often after refusing to play, she would touch him, 
or look at him, and he knew then that the little game 
was toward, and laugh, and then Marjory would 
become happy. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


231 


They drove from the shady garden into the city, 
and then Gavin bethought him of the bazaar. He was 
never tired of the bazaars. 

“It’s like a picture in my school-books,’ ’ said he, 
as the driver turned into the narrow thronged streets. 
There seemed a great mob of people running; there 
was noise and shouting and shrill laughter. Suddenly 
Gavin saw the reason of the terror in men’s faces. 
There came an Arab, his beard flecked with foam, 
his eyes rolling. In his hand he brandished a long 
thin knife, and already the blade was red. The mad¬ 
man left the mob at sight of the little carriage, and 
with a wild cry leapt at the driver. 

As Gavin sprang from beside Marjory, the driver 
took leg-bail, and the little horses stopped, and backed, 
snapping against their bits, and swishing their long 
tails. Gavin seized the madman in his arms, and 
yet felt a horror of squeezing him, of putting forth 
his strength. There was a spiked railing over a 
window. The white-uniformed police were hurrying 
to the scene. Up went the madman; his knife 
clattered on the pavement. He cried loudly on Allah, 
but was left hooked to the spikes, limp and weeping. 
Gavin returned to Marjory. He was in great humour 
that day. 

“A body’s not safe with these street Arabs, . said 
he, and laughed. “D’ye know, I used to think a 
street Arab was an old horse.” 

Marjory looked at him and sighed happily. 

“I’ve won the game,” said she. “There was an¬ 
other great big Scot that you did not see. When 
you lifted that one whom Allah has smitten, and left 
him quite safe and unhurt, this great man cried to 
his friends— tired-looking ladies—‘By the holy sailor, 


232 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


that Arab's a Scotsman,' and who," said she, "was 
the holy sailor?" 

"Well, and that was a good guess," said Gavin; 
"but the game is not finished," said he, looking 
round him in the thronged street. "The game's not 
finished, for the fair is not by yet." 

"But the game is finished," said Marjory, "be¬ 
cause I won’t play any more," and Gavin never knew 
that the stranger that cried "That Arab's a Scots¬ 
man" had revealed him to Marjory—a stranger, a 
Scot— a man of the West who would surely return 
to his own people. When the little carriage pulled 
up before the bank, Gavin sprang out and would have 
helped her descend. 

"No, I will wait," said Marjory aloud, and then 
to herself, "The game is finished," she whispered; 
"that Arab’s a Scot.” 

Sholto Douglas was waiting on their return. He 
was smiling, yet there seemed something of scorn in 
his face. He took them to his sitting-room, and 
turned to Gavin eagerly. 

"Look!” said he, "have you read the papers? 
Do you never read the papers? I tell you it's come,’’ 
he cried. "A fool has struck a match at last. In 
a week Europe will be afire." His eyes were shining, 
his body straight and limber, his voice was the low 
carrying voice of an officer, steady and convincing. 

"The great game begins, Gavin, and I—I should 
be a Lieutenant-General." 

Marjory laughed aloud. 

"You’re wrong, father," she cried, "you're all 
wrong. The game is finished, and I—I am just a 
little lonely Arab Bint.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


233 


But Douglas hardly heard her; he was talking 
rapidly. 

1 ‘ This will drive Abdul, whether he will or no; this 
will sweep him into the game he can play—there is 
none to play like him, except it he you, Gavin.” 

“But what does it mean?” said Gavin. 

“It means the mailed fist of Germany raised against 
the breast of the world. Oh, William Hohenzollern, 
you should have remained the play-actor, rattling 
your sabre at Agadir, parading your pomp in the 
streets of Jerusalem, charging in mimic battle. All 
the world loves an actor—on the boards, but ha! by 
God, the rutted field will rust your irons, the tired 
horse will resist against the spur.” 

“Must Britain fight?” said Gavin. 

< ‘ Fight! Fight for her life. Give her room, '' cried 
the soldier, “give her room, and watch her teach the 
world. You will hear the challenge of the shrill 
French cock; you will hear the growl of the Russian 
bear. Then, God! wait for the lion's roar! they 
would lightly the lion! Too long have they tweaked 
the lion's tail. Watch the lion and his cubs leap 
to battle.” 

He strode up and down the apartment, brooking 
no interference. His moustache seemed to bristle. 

“I tell you the heather’s on fire. They're sound¬ 
ing the gathering in Scotland now.” The tremendous 
pride of his country sounded in his voice; there was 
a rousing note, a challenge sounding. 

Marjory sat silent. Gavin felt strange thrills. 

“Ah, Gavin, my boy,” cried the exile, 

i( 1 *Tis something still to tell, 

That no Scottish foot went backward, 

When the Royal Lion fell.' 


234 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Nor will there. The Royal Scots are dirling out 
‘Scotland the Brave,’ the Argyll and Sutherlands, 
the Camerons, the Gay Gordons, the Seaforths, the 
Black Watch, the Highland Light Infantry, the 
Cameronians—I tell you they are marshalled this 
moment in feir of war—‘on the borough muir in 
feir of war,’ and that reminds me of the Borderers. 
That’s what William of Hohenzollern has for¬ 
gotten.” 

“But there’s England,” said Gavin; “England.” 

“England could always wauchle through. There’s 
nae fear o’ England, hut I’m a Scot. I’m telling ye 
the regiments that will make war a flaming glory. 
England! All the Empire is England but Scotland, 
and Scotland is the heart o’ the Empire. Aye,” said 
he, “and the heart is moved, the heart is moved.” 

Later that night came the Amir. He listened to 
the old soldier. Armies were formed, and moved, in 
Europe. New wars started like fire in the grass, little 
wars that joined up and became part of the dreadful 
fire that was to purge the world. There would come 
war in the sands. From Egypt to the frontier of 
Persia there would be troops. Now was the time for 
strong men to seize hold. The Turk was with Ger¬ 
many, and Germany would have Britain to face. 
The day had come. 

Douglas and Marjory must return to Egypt again, 
having set their house in order, but the Amir and 
Gavin were strong men, and strong men go forth to 
battle. 

In the chill dawn Gavin bade farewell to Marjory. 

“Au revoir, little Gipsy,” said he; “the game is 
not finished yet, it seems.” 

“Oh, play well, Gavin,” she cried, and clung to 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


235 


him, “play well, my kinsman; and remember— 
remember I will be thinking of the lines you taught 
me of the Douglas.” 

“ * First in the field of fight,”’ said Gavin. 

“Yes,” she cried, and laughed near to tears, “that, 
of course, you baby,” and kissed his hand. 

“What a brave lass it is,” said Gavin. “I wish, 
Marjory, you were coming with me.” 

“Only an Arab maiden could do that,” said she. 

“Well,” said Gavin, “and am I not an Arab?” 

“Yon Arab was a Scotsman,” said Marjory; “but 
oh, play well, Gavin, play well for my sake, for some¬ 
times I am thinking I am a Scot too.” 











BOOK IV 



CHAPTER I. 

OF HOW THE DOCTOR HEARS OF GAVIN. 

Dr. Ludovic Campbell stood for a moment to get 
his bearings. The streets were thronged with hurry¬ 
ing folks, neatly shod girls tripped past him; he 
caught glimpses of flashing white teeth, of warm furs, 
of little gloved hands. There was happiness in the 
air. Shops were bedecked with holly; there seemed 
a tremendous number of gamedealers* stores with 
strings of white hares, limp rabbits, and pathetic 
pigeons. Great cars purred past him dignified like 
battleships; tram-cars clanged and slid on to some 
far terminus. Everywhere there was life and laughter 
and music. Then his gaze fixed on a figure in rough 
tweeds—a towering figure, with great wide shoulders 
conspicuous, for the young men were mostly in 
uniform. 

“That's a sailor,” said he, noting how the tweed- 
clad pedestrian gave to a rise in the pavement as 
though it were a deck rising. Unconscious of many 
admiring glances, of many frank stares, the sailor 
held his course. What a fine thing it was to be back 
in this town that he knew so well. He remembered 
the first time, when he had thought that the railway 
station was some huge house, and well lighted. That 
239 


240 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


was before he had been bundled into a cab and 
dumped on board the old Loch Ryan, ’prentice on a 
windjammer—blamed old lime-juicer. The doctor 
stepped on to the pavement. 

“Kestrel!” said he. 

The sailor gave a quick look, then he stopped and 
came round in a wide circle. He spoke in loud ex¬ 
pletives: “Heavens! Think of it, doctor . . He 
crushed the doctor’s hand in his; his voice boomed. 
“Here was I, not knowin’ a soul,” said he, “an’ 
dying for a drink, and you turnup. That’s the finger 
of the Almighty Providence—always had luck in 
darkness. Do you remember translating ‘Lux in 
tenebris’ for me once over the door of the big house. 
Only dam’ Latin I «ver remembered! Luck’s in 
darkness, and so it is for me always—always risk my 
luck in the dark and never missed.” 

“Come and feed somewhere.” The doctor led the 
way into a restaurant. His eyes were sparkling, his 
voice low-pitched but keen; there was a little malor 
flush on his cheek, as he would term it. 

“D’ye mind your advice to me before I left on 
my first trip, doctor?” the great voice boomed round 
the room. Men looked up and looked away; ladies 
looked up, and looked again. 

“I don’t remember,” said Campbell. 

The sailor touched the bell. “Drink dam’ slow,” 
said he, with a great laugh. “I minded that too.” 

“But your Latin isn’t right,” said Campbell. “It 
was ‘Light in darkness.’ ” 

“That sounds daft, doctor. There’s no light in 
darkness,” and then suddenly the seafarer laughed. 
“Here’s me hangin’ on to that Latin proverb for 
y ears —faith.—by Jove!—if I had waited for light in 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


241 


darkness, I would be in the Hooglie by this time.” 
He was unconscious that people listened, that little 
dapper men gave themselves an extra importance, 
because of him, or perhaps in spite of him. 

“I have been told, captain, that you were the 
strongest man east of Suez,” said the doctor. “Well, 
ye look it.” 

The captain smiled. “It takes strong men to live 
east of Suez. There’s a fair rugg of strength in me 
yet, but nothing extra. I’ll tell you something about 
strength, though. Coming home this time, we went 
to Cairo—a fine town, by Gad!—gamble, racecourse, 
tennis, everything a man wants to do. They under¬ 
stand how to concoct a man’s drinks there, and you 
drink and let the tribes wander by; see great fellahs 
in from the desert with the plaits of camel-hair in their 
heads, wearing long burnous affairs, maybe yellow, or 
maybe green, or maybe blue. Camels come wander¬ 
ing in with about a ton of stones in rope-carriers 

_dam’ rotten beasts, camels—frothing through 

rope-muzzles, and lookin’ contemptuous. The Arabs 
say the camel looks down its nose yon way because 
the Prophet was out meeting Allah in the desert and 
listening to the hundred names of God, seated on his 
barracked camel. Mahomet sneezed, and never heard 
the hundredth name, but the camel, being farther 
ahead owing to his build, got the hundredth name, and 
he’s looked down on men ever since. I could tell ye a 
lot more about the camel, doctor. Anyway, we took 
the ladies round all the mosques in Cairo, and showed 
’em the mark of Mahomet’s feet on a stone somewhere 
and two pillars set close together for trying criminals; 
looked from the citadel and saw the Roman aqueduct 
straddling against the fire of the desert sun like a 


242 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


shadow of the past; saw the mosque where old Napo¬ 
leon stabled his horses—great business stabling horses 
in the kirks—I expect it’ll be the stalls that do it; 
and anyway, up on the walls ye can see the cannon¬ 
balls where the French gunners got the target, and 
the cracks in the masonry like houses in a mining 
village; went out to the pyramids and saw the 
Sphinx. I mind I had a drink at the Sphinx, and I 
aye thought I understood her better after that. Well, 
that sort of gives you a general idea of being in Cairo 
with ladies to convoy on the way. I’m coming to 
the bazaars—just like Arabian nights with wonder¬ 
ful jewels, and carpets, and shawls, and scarves, and 
heaven knows what, worked by the ladies of the 
harem—saucerfuls of diamonds and opals, amber 
beads and beaten copper, anbar cigarettes and 
carpets, sabres belonging to the Shah of Persia, and 
God knows what more—mixed all up with camels 
and wee double machines—nice wee horses—go like 
blazes if ye shout Arab curses or anything else like 
that—a most wonderful place. Well, we had looked 
at carpets, drunk wee cups of coffee, and read all 
the letters that all the aristocracy of this country 
send to these Gippo shopkeepers, and we intended 
walking back to Shephard’s, when down the street 
came the rebel tread, as somebody says somewhere; 
but this rebel made no noise with his tread, only 
the folk scurried into holes and corners, like 
chickens in long grass—macnoon, I assure you—a 
great buck of a fellow looking ugly, and carrying 
on a masterpiece, biting and spitting and foaming 
and jabbing peaceful folk with a gully, like that 
fellow who raised his hand against every man—Moses, 
was it?” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


243 


“Ishmael!” 

“Ishmael—oh aye! Ishmael doesn’t matter a 
dam’—chum of Moses anyway. Into this mess came 
a wee double machine, and a devil of a pot 
sitting in it, looking as calm as a millpond, or the 
Sphinx herself—a pukka Arab—but about the finest- 
looking fellah ye would see in a day’s journey. The 
mad fellow left off harrying the rear of the mob, and 
came at the carriage like a mad dog, and the driver 
hooked it—bolted like a rabbit. Well, at that the 
Arab came into action. He seemed amused too. 
There was a cheval-de-frise—y’ know, a spiked iron 
railing—at the corner of the street; don’t know yet 
what it would be for, but it was about five feet off 
the ground over a window. I saw that Arab shoot 
out his hand—his left hand, mind—and take a fistful 
of the madman’s burnous, and slowly, quite slowly, 
the madman rose into the air, clawing and yelling 
and his feet kicking. I mind his shin-bones and the 
froth at his mouth. Up he went, his knife clattering 
there in the gutter, and he stopped, hooked to the 
railing by his middle, between heaven and earth like 
Mahomet’s coffin, and then the droll thing hap¬ 
pened. The Arab stepped back a pace, and looked 
up at his friend. There was a kind of likeable grin 
on the young fellow’s face, too, and then says he, 
‘Ye’re sold, my Arab steed,’ and went back to 
his seat. Was that not dam’ strange? D’ye mind 
Pate Dol used to sing that when he got a taste on a 
fair night ? I would have spoken to that fellow, but 
he gave a yap at his driver—sounded as bitter as 
gall,—and away he went without a backward look, 
and I don’t blame him either.” 

‘‘Why would ye not?” 


244 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


‘‘Man, sitting beside him in that double machine 
was the finest woman I ever saw, and I’ve moved 
around and seen some. There are bonny wee black 
girls, with red flowers in their hair, a man meets 
whiles—shy wee things really, and fond of stroking 
a man, and making nuzzling kind of crooning noises; 
and there’s Spaniards that dance—because they must 
—gay flashing belles that wither in the sun. There’s 
beauties from Russia—one, I mind, was branded on 
her near shoulder—a hell of a scar on the white satin 
of her skin. One moves around and remembers, from 
the Port of London to the South Seas, but never a 
woman did I see like that woman. Ye’ve seen Venus 
de Milo? Well, like that, but alive, doctor, with the 
red blood coursing under her skin, leaving it like wine, 
dark like honey. There’s no word for it. Her hands 
were like some long flower. At first she looked cold 
as frozen marble; her eyes may have seen the people 
and the street and the shops, but they never showed 
it—great dark eyes. Her mouth looked as it might 
have been chiselled, so firm it was and beautiful. I 
tell you that woman’s face was pride, and bravery, and 
mystery,—Eve, and Cleopatra, and Mary Queen of 
Scots. Burns might have described her. Man, when 
the madman struggled with her friend her face 
changed—the weariness, the coldness, the hauteur left 
it. She stood up like a very woman. I mind her 
hands clenched, the wrists turned back. I think all 
hell burned in her eyes, her white teeth were clenched, 
and her lips turned down. That for a moment, 
then a little smile came over her, her lips pouted like 
a young girl’s moved with music, her hands clasped 
at her bosom, and then she sat down and waited, 
listless, cold, haughty. I don’t think she spoke to 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


245 


the hefty lad that hooked up the madman like a side 
of beef. Gad, but her face gave her away, betrayed 
her, eh! I would be remarkably sorry for the dame 
that came between yon pair.” 

4 ‘Not boiling oil?” says the doctor. 

“Boiling oil's cheap—sounds like a paint shop. 
No, no, wild horses—Mazeppa business, or snakes, or 
devils—slow music and the lights jumping from 
hidden corners, and the Witch of Endor to give 
the orders. Have a drink, doctor. I could frighten 
myself thinking of it.” 

The doctor sat long before his bedroom fire; the 
“Kestrel” was long since asleep. He hated strange 
bedrooms, hotel bedrooms especially, where people 
chalked unlucky numbers on the soles of his boots. 
He thought of all the people who might have slept 
there, might have sat gazing into the fire as he sat 
gazing. The streets were empty; footsteps echoed 
in the emptiness; belated taxis whizzed past, taking 
roysterers homewards. If he looked out of his window 
he would see cats treading their way daintily over 
the pavements, investigating buckets of refuse before 
shops. In a little, carts and motors would arrive in 
some dark alley-way, and men with candles in their 
hats would clamber into refuse-pits, and speak loudly 
to their horses—then likely it would rain. He felt 

miserable. n , 

“It couldn’t be Gavin,” said he aloud; it surely 
couldn’t be Gavin driving round with a sort of tiger- 
lily I wonder what Mairi would say to that; she 11 
need to be a wonder before Mairi ’ll be pleased.” 

‘‘Ton Arab was a Scotsman.” That was the cap¬ 
tain’s word. Still, Scots were wanderers. Who was 


246 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


it from home sailed into the Arctic Circle and boarded 
a sailing schooner? Well, never mind. The skipper 
was wearing a bowler hat; they were fishing for 
walrus, and, by God, the skipper was from Loch 
Ranza, and his name—but no, no, Gavin would be 
in France fighting, or in Germany a prisoner. The 
East was hateful to the doctor. It was a place of 
manifold diseases, and curiously he had that horror 
of diseases that is typical of Celtic folk. He had 
droll unformed notions of wicked women and rascally 
men living in sin in obscure places, of vices he knew 
little of. Gavin was still a boy to the hard old man, 
who knew the world, and all that night he lay a-fidget 
in his bed, worrying about his pupil; 11 as hard as an 
oak physically, but too trusting,’’ he would mutter, 
1 ‘too trusting, and only a boy as green as leeks. 
The first glee woman he meets with ...” He thought 
of his voyages as M.O. to the East, but that brought 
him no comfort. “I kent Paris outside and inside 
by then. I was salted, but Gavin ...” Then who 
was the woman he drove with? Maybe she had a 
husband somewhere, maybe Gavin would be footer- 
ing with married women, and that’s no canny in a 
warm climate. He’ll maybe get ground glass in his 
mess o’ pottage, or a knife in the back, and a splash 
into the Nile from a houseboat ... He had horrible 
visions all night, and rose in the morning—a foggy 
morning with frost, miserable weather, and miserable 
folk hurrying in the dimness. But for all that he 
had made up his mind. Douglas and Janet Erskine 
would not hear of this. 

In the spring, Pate came to dig in the garden with 
him at the Wilderness. The days went in quicker, with 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


247 


a new little corner finished every day, and drills ap¬ 
pearing, and little cabbages being dibbled, and taking 
root, and growing. And the doctor would mow the 
grass on his lawn, and dig deep trenches for his sweet 
peas, for in country places the folk have great con¬ 
tests with potatoes, and cabbage, and simple products 
of the red earth, and have great pleasure in green 
things growing. Pate would rest whiles, or maybe 
the doctor would give him a cry, and take him close 
to the house to a little table with a large jug of beer 
on it, and then they discussed many things, from 
cabbages to genealogies. On such a day, the doctor 
lit a cigarette thoughtfully. 

“Did Gavin ever learn much poetry, Pate?” 

“He had all the battles nearly in poetry, but nae 
love-poems,” said Pate. “He couldna thole love- 
songs, but he was keen on horse. Ye mind, ‘I gal¬ 
loped, Dick galloped, we galloped all three,’ and the 
like of that.” 

1 ‘ Imphm, Pate! Was he good at any more? 

“His favourites were the battles except ‘My beau¬ 
tiful, My beautiful.’ Man, I had him perfect in ‘My 
beautiful, My beautiful.’ God bless me, at yon bit 
where the bargain was closed he could spit on his 
haun’ and give it to the life, and him only a wean. 
‘Ye’re sold,’ he would say, and spit, ‘ye’re sold, my 
Arab steed. ’ ’ ’ 

Late that night the doctor rose and took his way 
slowly upstairs. Half-way up he halted, the brass 
candlestick shaking in his hand. “God grant the 
lad will die in uniform,” said he, “if die he must. 


CHAPTER II. 


HOW IRENE SAILED FOR THE EAST. 

I think that, as the years went on, Irene Savage 
almost forgot, when no letter came to answer her 
letter. She wished that she had never written. She 
wondered often about that letter—where was it lying ? 
Why had it never returned 1 

She would look at Gavin’s photograph, speak to it 
softly. She would blush as she regarded the pictured 
face, for always she took that photograph, and looked 
at it before she slept. She became aware that this 
routine was impossible to break. And sometimes she 
would try hard to let Gavin lie in his secret drawer, 
but then there would come no sleep until she had 
spoken to him. There came a fear that if she forgot 
this little play something evil might happen to Gavin; 
then Irene would rise hurriedly and, barefooted, go 
quietly to her hiding-place. And she scorned herself 
—held herself up to the ridicule of her friends (did 
they but know), the proud Irene pressing a paste¬ 
board to her heart, speaking to the image of a man 
she hardly knew. Yet she was become a gentle girl, 
a more thoughtful girl, a more beautiful girl. 

John Savage began to think that his daughter was 
in ill-health. Irene laughed at him, and then a pro- 
248 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


249 


ject formed in her brain. She approached Prim 
Sheppard. 

“I think—I really think, Prim, that this American 
climate does not suit me,” said Irene. 

“My dear,” said Miss Sheppard, “there cannot 
possibly be anything wrong with the climate of 
America. Look at your father, so strong, and brown, 
and young-looking.” 

Irene smiled. 

“Yes, I know,” she said, “but if you would only 
look at me”—her voice became so pathetic that 
Miss Sheppard was startled—“look at me a little 
more,” said Irene, making herself look as though 
she were hollow-chested, and becoming more and 
more sorry for herself. 

“My dear, you look beautiful,” said Miss Sheppard, 
“and I’m sure all the young eligibles think you do; 
but you are so—so unfeeling-” 

“I’m like my father,” said Irene sadly. “We 
never show our feelings, dear, and I think if you 
call young men ‘eligibles’ again, I think I’ll bite 
you, or them—eligibles—it’s like vegetables. Here,” 
said she, “is a row of early eligibles. And I’m sure 
it’s—it’s bad for me to be put into a pet. My heart 
is not strong—I know my heart is not strong, and 

what my lungs must be like-” Irene essayed a 

hacking cough, which, being laughter converted into 
a new channel, sounded very dreadful indeed. “I’m 
sure my lungs need tapping, and my heart pressing, 
or—or something.” 

Miss Sheppard left her in alarm. 

“I think,” said she to John Savage, “I think that 
Miss Irene should see a specialist.” 

Savage laid down his paper hurriedly. “A special- 



250 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


ist! What is wrong ? Why am I kept in ignorance ? 
I keep telling you that girl is in decline or some¬ 
thing—why, she gets thinner than a rake. A specialist! 
She’ll see ten specialists. She gets more like Indian 
Famine every day. Her mother said that name would 
bring no luck—but what’s a name got to do with it?” 

“Nothing, dear,” said Irene, “and I don’t want 
any old specialist, if you’ll be good and bring the 
doctor to see me. I expect really I need a tonic, or 
a change of air, or something.” 

Savage looked at his daughter. 

‘ ‘ Say, honey, you don’t look ill, ’ ’ said he anxiously. 

“I’m not ill, but I might be, so it’s best to send for 
the doctor.” 

“There’s another fellow mooning around and not 
up to his feed,” said Savage, “and that’s your pet 
Irishman, Dungannon.” 

“Poor Patrick!” said Irene. “I wonder if the 
same tonic would cure us both?” 

“Lord knows what will cure Dungannon. I’ve 
thought that maid of yours-” 

* ‘ Kitty, ’ ’ said Irene, ‘ ‘ my maid Kitty. Why, she’s 
only from Ireland!” 

“What’s the matter with Ireland?” 

‘ * It would be all right if they would only take the 
Ire out of it,” said Irene. 

“Well, I want to keep the Ire in you,” said her 
father. “You’ve got no go—no pep—no sting.” 

Irene was not listening; there was a smile in 
her eyes. 

“Father,” she said, “wasn’t that cute about the 
Ire in Ireland?” 

“Why, yes, it was,” said Savage, “but my come¬ 
back was cute too, and slick. What’s got you now?” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


251 


“I was just thinking,” said Irene, 4 'it's wonderful 
what you can do manoeuvring with words. Listen. 
If they took the Ire out of Ireland, what would 
she do?” 

‘‘Oh, I dunno,” said Savage. 

“She would come back to Brin,” said Irene, and 
laughed so that her father laughed with her. 

“That doesn't sound much like lung trouble to 
me,” said he. “Come back to Brin. Well, Dun¬ 
gannon will be with you there. But see a doctor 
you shall.” 

And the old doctor was no fool. He regarded Irene 
over his glasses with a quizzical smile. 

“Well,” said he, “what treatment is required, 

Miss Savage?” 

“Good treatment, doctor,” said Irene. 

“Change of air, change of scene, change of environ¬ 
ment. ’ 9 

Irene was nodding her head. 

“Quite right every time, doctor, and listen, I’m 
becoming fearfully clever. Listen, I only do it with 
words. I want you to take the ‘men’ out of my 

environment.” . ,, 

“It’s a pity, Miss Savage, you don’t know Latin, 

said he. 

“Why, doctor?” 

“Even if I take away the men from your environ- 
ment, there would he a man left Mr. Vir—a Latin 
gentleman.” 

“Well,” said Irene, “I think that that is a sign 
surely Italy would do me good, would it not?” ^ 
“Italy would do anyone good—but why Italy? 
“Oh, it is in the Mediterranean, and that’s the 
highway to the Bast. I think Italy would he the very 


252 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


best treatment, doctor, and my father is rusting— 
no, it’s only steel magnates that rust; father is 
vegetating . . .” 

“Ill do what I can,” said the doctor. “Some day, 
perhaps, you’ll tell me if I helped you. In the mean¬ 
time, Miss Savage,” said he in his professional voice, 
“you must endeavour to keep from punning. It has 
a curiously irritating effect on the auricular appa¬ 
ratus. In fact,” said the doctor, “in your ear, it’s 
a sin that is its own punishment. Good-morning.” 

Irene’s spirits improved daily. She would be sing¬ 
ing softly to herself in a kind of ecstasy as though 
some great good-fortune should attend her—was just 
awaiting her coming. Dungannon was in his element 
for the time being. 

“There looks like to be trouble in Europe,” said 
Savage. “Europe hasn’t got past the days of battle 
yet,” said he. “They’ve a hankering for more dates 
in their histories to teach children ’stead of teaching 
’em business. Well, I guess while they make history, 
America will make money; and money talks loudest.” 

“Europe is an old-established date firm, isn’t it?” 
said Irene; “men of war supplied since away before 
1066 .” 

“I reckon we can sail to-morrow,” said Savage; 
“we’re under ‘Old Glory.’ Paul Jones sailed under 
the same flag. I reckon it’s good enough for us.” 

“Well, he was a Scotsman,” said Irene, “if he 
were our first admiral.” She delighted in rousing 
her father. 

“Sailed the Ranger, honey. American ship under 
the Stars and Bars. C.an you beat it?” 

“America’s famous for its stars and bars even 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


253 


now,” said Irene, “ cinema stars and American 
bars.” 

“Say, you’re more’n half-British, Irene Savage. 
Take my advice, the British are fine fellows to keep 
clear of. Yon get to like ’em, when you know ’em. 
It’s dangerous.” 

“I know,” cried the girl, '‘you get to like ’em 
before you know ’em properly; it’s sure dangerous, 

daddy.” ,, 

“Now you’re beyond me, Famine; I’m lost now. 
“Never mind, daddy, I’m lost myself sometimes,” 


said Irene. . . 

‘ ‘ I tell you they were great fellows, these Britishers. 

It’s not so long, not so very long, honey, since 
every ship that sailed lowered her topsail in salute to 
the British flag. ‘Old Glory’ is a fine flag, but, Irene, 
there’s something about the White Ensign that 
makes one feel proud—proud and sad—the White 
Ensign blowing out stiff from the gaff—the white o 
it like the salt from the seven seas, and the red 
like the blood of the sailors who died uder it.” 

In mid-Atlantic, the captain of the White Lady 
mused on the sparks that flitted and sparkled from 


the wireless apparatus. ' . . 

“Going off,” said he to his officer, like little jokes 

all by themselves ...” 

And as he spoke, the wireless operator approached 
him hurriedly, a report form in his hand and a smile 


on his boyish face. 

“Anything goodU’ said the captain. # 

“Pretty fair, sir, I guess— Britain’s at war wit 

Germany.” j . . 

It was after midnight, but the captain came to 

the owner’s state-room. Savage read the report. 


254 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


4 ‘Bully for Britain,” said lie, “bully for Britain. 
I guess she couldn’t just keep out of it.” 

“Have you any orders, sir?” said the captain. 

“None, captain. I guess we’ll be spectators in 
this show. I thought it would have fizzled out. 
•Well, it may be awkward at Gib., but we’ll not cross 
any bridges till we come to them. Good-night.” 

“Good-night, sir.” 

The captain turned to leave. 

“Well,” said Savage, “I guess Wall Street will be 
humming to-morrow.” 

At Gibraltar, Irene stood with her father on deck. 
There were ships converging to the Straits on port 
and starboard. The captain had his glasses on a 
string of flags on shore. 

Close by a Dane, black, and trim, and smart, 
sailed by. A little British ship came fussing out, 
her halyards a string of bunting. The Dane 
sailed on. 

“That fellow T1 get his in a minute,” said the 
captain to Savage. He pointed to the string 
of flags on the little vessel. “In easy language 
that means 'Put them up; I’ve got the drop on 
you.’ Guess the Dane means to call the Britisher’s 
bluff.” 

The yacht was abreast of the tow-boat. There 
came a crack of a cannon, and at the Dane’s bows a 
splash of white water leapt up. Irene ran to her 
father, speaking quickly. 

The captain spoke a word to Dungannon at the 
wheel, and joined his employer. 

“The Dane’s stopped,” said he. “There will be 
a polite officer in the skipper’s cabin in a minute, 
saying nasty things with a baby smile. I bet the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


255 


skipper’s mad,” said he. “A shot across his hawse, 
and fetched up with a round turn.” 

Ashore a new string of bunting fluttered out. The 
second officer turned leaves rapidly and interpreted. 

* 1 Reduce speed—dead slow.” 

The captain pushed the indicator over; there came 
a tinkling of bells from the engine-room. 

“Say,” said Savage, “you got no topsail handy, 
sir.” 

“No, sir,” said he; “we’re flying a very good 
ensign.” 

That first night in Gibraltar there was no moon. 
Irene walked the deck alone, awaiting her father’s 
return from shore, listening to the strange noises: the 
little sputtering exhaust from motor launches, the 
strange voices of men singing, the echoing roar of a 
bosun’s mate aboard a British warship, the piercing 
note of bugles, and yet with all these sounds there was 
silence, she felt—silence and secrecy. The great Rock 
loomed darkly, like a crouching lion. Something like 
that other Rock. Beyond the Straits, she thought of 
ships creeping stealthily, showing no lights. On the 
Spanish coast shone the flare of a lighthouse—the 
only light over all the black oily sea—and grim-faced 
sailor men, thought Irene, would sleep soundly only 
under the loom of that dark Rock, for the sea-leopard 
was abroad hunting. 

When Savage returned, he was very silent, and sat 
smoking a long time. Irene coiled herself on a 
settee and awaited his story. She had gone on too 
many hunting trips with him to attempt to break his 

silence. At last— u 

“Would you mind very much, said he, ir we 

missed out this trip to Italy?” 


256 GAVIN DOUGLAS 

“No,” said Irene, “if you think that would be 
best.” 

‘‘I can’t see where this war will end—everybody 
has declared war on everybody else. Russia is march¬ 
ing on Germany, Germany is marching through Bel¬ 
gium on France, Britain is pouring troops across the 
Channel. The Grand Fleet is in the North Sea. 
Bulgaria, Servia, Austria are snarling like wolves, 
and Italy is at present in a state of armed neutrality. 
I’ve been in many States, but armed neutrality 
doesn’t sound good to me. I tell you, honey, Europe 
is mad. I listened to-night to well-bred gentlemen 
talking of causus belli, benevolent neutrality, bri¬ 
gades, battalions, destroyers, and Uhlans until I felt 
bughouse—er—mad. ’ ’ 

“Well,” said Irene, “I hope Britain will win. She 
has nearly always won, hasn’t she ? It would be wrong 
to think she could lose, with Gibraltar above us.” 

“We licked ’em,” said Savage. “Britain licked 
the world, and we licked the British.” 

“I expect we licked ’em when they were busy 
lickin’ the world,” said Irene. 

“Licked ’em on land and sea,” said Savage. 

“Oh, daddy, daddy, what an old fire-eater—on 
land and sea.” 

Suddenly, still looking at her father, and with a 
merry smile, Irene rose and stood before him, her 
chin tilted. 

“Listen, you dear old Yankee,” she cried, and 
sang softly, but with great spirit— 

“Brave Broke he waved his sword, 

Cried, ‘Britons, let us board, 

And we’ll make them dance to 
Yanky Doodle Dandy Oh!’ ” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


257 


John Savage put his arm round her shoulders. 

“You dear little rebel,” said he, and shook her 
gently. “You might be in love with a Britisher to 
hear you. ’ ’ 

“In love,” said Irene, “in love—with a Brit¬ 
isher ...” 

“Well, don’t be vexed,” said Savage, for Irene’s 
face was very dark, and her eyes downcast. “I think 
we will meander along the coast of Africa—isn t that 
high Barbary, where the trees grow on high hills, 
and white castles show, here and there? And then 
we might make Malta and then Alexandria. I don t 
like the idea of scurrying back across the Atlantic 
because Europe is at war. How would that 
do?” 

“I think that would do very well; but in those 
papers you bought, ladies, women mothers, sisters, 
and wives of soldiers are doing things nursing, 
working, and oh, everything. Is there nothing I 
could do?” 

“Do! Why, yes, you’ve got to get well.” 

“I was never ill,” said Irene, “and to be pleasure 
cruising when the world is burning—is wicked as 
Nero.” 

“Well, we’ll see what can be done when we reach 
Alexandria,” said Savage, “if it’s only applying the 
balm of Gilead to the corn of Egypt.” 

The months went slowly by for Marjory. She felt 
like a caged bird—she longed for freedom. Sholto, 
her father, had made what arrangements he could 
anent the disposal of his'horse and cattle. The Amir 
had need of these; the best of his flock were driven 
far distances to safety, with sheikhs whose grazings 


258 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


lay far from tlie march of an enemy. His young 
men were with Gavin and the Amir, the old men 
and the women still dwelt by the house set amidst 
the palms. War took no count of such as these— 
the maidens might hide themselves in cunning places. 
His treasures were buried, such as could not be taken 
to his house in Cairo. Arabs were pressed into serv¬ 
ice with the Turk—the Turk who for years innumer¬ 
able had been master of the Arab. 

“If the house be burned and cast down,” said the 
exile, “in the track of war, when the war ends we 
will build ourselves another and a better. There is 
grain stored against famine, and secret caves for 
hiding known to Ishmael; it may be that war will 
pass us by.” 

Father and daughter would drive in the early 
morning, but now Marjory did not play at any little 
games, but often there was a look of expectancy on 
her face, as she watched soldiers marching, or on 
leave, and her thoughts were on the desert. 

Sholto Douglas read papers, endless papers, and 
now and then in his reading he would stop and tell 
his daughter of some soldier who was “junior to me 
long ago,” and he would sigh and bid Marjory sing 
to him—sad songs of the cold North,—and whiles 
then they would sit and talk in the warm evenings, 
and aye their talk would be of Gavin and the 
Amir. 

But after two years of silence, Mahmud, the serv¬ 
ant of Gavin, came into the courtyard with the 
setting sun, bringing letters, or rather a sort of diary 
of events, for the edification of Sholto, and then the 
brief curt phrases would give place to a more genial 
and descriptive style for Marjory’s benefit. It was 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


259 


a long, long letter, and hardly decipherable in places, 
but father and daughter pored over it long after 
bedtime. 

On a certain date there would be an entry, ''Wells 

at-poisoned, forced march to Wady-, horses 

very worn, no good water for days,” and then, “We 

dug for water at the Wady-, and, Marjory, you 

would have loved to see the horses, the poor creatures 
straining to relieve their thirst, pawing and looking 
round with great eyes questioning, and then in their 
eagerness kneeling on their knees by the water-holes. 
My little chestnut mare is wonderful.” 

Again, “The Turks had taken up a position 

at_ t and, fearing cavalry attacks, digged pits on 

their front, three rows like large deep basins too wide 
to leap horses over. These pits were very beautifully 
made, and would have served a good purpose, but 
the artillery rendered them useless. I thought of 
the story of the pits at Bannockburn, with brush¬ 
wood covers, and calthrops of iron, and it seemed 
as though war had always been the same in essentials, 
only that the cannon had improved. You should ry 
to invent a noiseless rifle; it would so much increase 

the element of surprise. ,. 

“Aeroplanes are wonderful. I think for bombing 
enemy towns I would have an aeroplane with a 
revolving bomb platform capable of being lowered 
loaded while the machine is in the air, so that it 
would clear the wheel base. The platform might be 
shaped like a section of a cone, and the bombs would 
be discharged at an angle while the platform revove 
rapidly. Instead of bomb-dropping in direct suc¬ 
cession, a considerable number might be dropped at 
once in varying circles from a central bomb. 


260 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


‘* Does Gavin love this horrible killing?” said she, 
turning another page. 

“I think that I have been of some service to the 
agents of Great Britain, but cannot say anything 
here; these stories will keep. There is a droll thing I 
remember. We were playing the old Scots game, 
hanging on the flanks of the Turk, striking whenever 
a chance came, breaking their sleep by night, fraying 
their temper by day. I was in country new to me, 
and I saw Ayrshire cattle—Ayrshire cattle—from 
whence to where. It went against the grain to slay 
them; they looked like friends. Mahmud will wait 
with you for seven days, and then return to me; he 
has his orders. I will write as often as I can to 
Messrs. Thomas & Son, so that if you go from Cairo 
to Alexandria, to the sea, you will still get letters. 
I enclose a field postcard which I got from a British 
officer. It is addressed to Mairi on the Rock. You 
might post it.” Then there followed praise for the 
military skill and leadership of Abdul. The very 
Arab serving with the Turks, and wounded, will ask 
if all is well with the Amir, with their last breath— 
1 ‘this we have from prisoners. I think that the 
desert beholds her king.” 

Mahmud had long vague stories of always riding 
—“many Turks die,” said he, and told of the sands 
where yet the arms of Turks, and the legs, festered in 
the sun. 

“And,” said Douglas, “I think that Gavin has 
been with the Intelligence Department, for Mahmud 
told of work done among hostile people, and indeed 
refused to tell how he had come to Cairo, or where 
he had left his master.” 

And Marjory read and reread Gavin’s diary, 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


261 


searching for the smallest message, if it were only a 
phrase that she might have used in conversation. 
There breathed friendship in the pages; all that might 
interest her was described, as an elder might describe 
to a favourite younger brother, wishing to give him 
pleasure. She wrote a long letter, but felt in reading 
it that all she had described were the little petty 
rounds of her days—a letter she thought that a hus' 
band might want, but not the letter she wished to 
send to Gavin. From his servant she knew that he 
was well, but might he not be wounded, or killed, 
and never know what was in her heart ? She 
wrote then a wildly passionate letter like a poem 
of love. 

“I am as the trees in winter in the cold lands, sad 
that the sun is hidden. My tears fall like rain from 
bare boughs, bringing no joy. Return, oh sun, with 
gladness, then will my limbs be decked with blossoms 
for your delight, and then will my tears be bright 
as laughter, comforting as dew on roses m the night. 
The sun sinks red in the desert, and still places men¬ 
ace me, for that thou art absent. Awaking after 
sleep, my heart is chill with fear in the new day, for 
my love is in peril. My lips are athirst for love, m 
the darkness I stretch out bare arms ... 

With many seals Marjory closed her letter, and 
carried it all day close to her heart; but before 
Mahmud took his departure, she held the envelope 
to a flame, until black ash and sputtering wax alone 

remained. , . 

“Gavin would hate that weakness, she^whis¬ 
pered “he would scorn these cloying words ; but 
she became tired of Cairo and wearied for Alexan¬ 
dria, where there was sea-there is something cold 


262 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


and brave in the sea winds, something akin to her 
cousin from the North. 

During the long train journey she watched from 
her carriage windows always, speaking to her father 
seldom—watched the workers in the little fields with 
straight drains of irrigation—watched always the 
bullocks turning in slow blundering circles, so that 
water might be drawn up to fill the thirsty muddy 
drains, that the dry land might bear yet more 
bounteous harvest. 

There were mud villages with places of tombs at 
haphazard. Dogs and children, sheep and cattle, 
lay together in the shade; the fertile lands teemed 
with people who crowded hurrying on little beaten 
footpaths between their crops, hurrying to the shade 
of mud villages. 

The train stopped at little stations with well-built 
offices, and looking from the window Marjory called 
her father’s attention to a flock of little hens scratch¬ 
ing where grain had been spilled, or where maybe an 
orderly had fed his horse—hot dusty little fowl toil¬ 
ing in the sun. Sholto’s face had an amused look. 

“Gavin’s old Mairi had a saying about hens,” said 
he, “but I forget it.” 

“There never was a hen lived that did not die in 
debt, was that it?” said Marjory. 

“That was it, but I think she would have made 
an exception of our friends at their scratching in the 
heat. You have a fine memory, Marjory.” 

“I never forget Gavin’s stories of his boyhood,” 
said she. “After he told me about Mairi’s hens, he 
said to me, ‘Was it not kind of droll?’ Do you know 
what we will do in Alexandria the first thing?” 

Douglas shook his head and smiled. 41 No, ’ ’ said he. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


263 


“We’ll see if there are any letters from Gavin, for 
he will have written again.” 

But many times Douglas and Marjory drove from 
the Hotel Majestic in Alexandria to the offices of 
Messrs. Thomas & Sons, seeking letters, and always 
Douglas would have the same comfort for his 
daughter. 

“Never mind, Marjory,” he would say, “there is 
another day coming.” 

And in safe anchorage in Alexandria, where Scots 
soldiers talked learnedly about the Pharos, the White 
Lady lay, bearing a red cross on her white side—the 
White Lady was become a hospital ship, and John 
Savage noted with grim satisfaction that Irene’s little 
foibles and whims were laid aside. She rose early 
and worked late, seeking little rest, that her patients 
might have such tireless care as a mother would have 
bestowed. She received the thanks of grave-faced 
medical officers with so much of humbleness and 
gladness that her father laughed, and yet he knew 
his daughter too well to believe that she was acting 
a new part. The role had been too long sustained for 
that. It was perhaps that her real nature manifested 
itself. Yet there was something unknown to him. 
Alone in the night, Irene would gaze always at the 
same star that burned low in the east—her hands 
clenched—there were no words at all on her lips; but, 
unknown to God even, she made a bargain. If she 
could save the lives of men, however hard the toil, 
however long the fight—surely her man would come 
through this alive,—that was all that she asked, of 
some deity beyond the star that burned low in the east. 

But John Savage wearied. There were few men of 


264 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


his age, of his kind, of his language. He was sure 
now that America should be in the war. Roosevelt 
urged his nation to grander ideals; the best men in 
his nation saw the path to honour clearly, yet the 
nation held back. He was impatient that his coun¬ 
try should despise her birthright. These were his 
thoughts, sitting in the afternoon in the lounge of 
the Majestic, discarded papers round his cane chair, 
the fresh breeze lightly moving his white hair. On 
the little cold glass-covered table a long thin tumbler 
invited investigation. 

At the same table in the lounge of the Majestic 
sat Sholto Douglas. Marjory disliked public rooms, 
but insisted that her father smoke and read among 
his kind, whilst she dreamed her dreams. 

The men’s eyes met often; the band on the piazza 
struck up a rollicking marching air. Both men lifted 
their glasses, and then bowed slightly and drank. 

“I guess, sir, we might almost understand one 
another in the vernacular , 91 said Savage. 

‘ 1 Aye, aye,” said Sholto. 

And after that every afternoon these two would 
meet in the lounge to discuss world problems, to 
forget that the bitterness of age was on them, and 
that the youth warred. Thus it was that Marjory 
Douglas, coming from Messrs. Thomas & Sons with 
news of Gavin—Marjory darkly flushed with happi¬ 
ness, hastening to her father who awaited her, saw 
him speaking to a stranger, and was greatly taken 
with the manners of the American gentleman who 
stood in the sunlight bareheaded. 

“I have a daughter, Miss Stuart, who would be 
proud to know you,” said he, little knowing. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


265 


But that evening at dinner, Savage caused a mild 
flutter in the heart of Prim Sheppard. 

“Irene,’’ said he, 4 ‘if I were to marry again, I 
guess I could give you the initial letter of the maiden’s 
surname.” 

“Well, that’s easy,” cried Irene; “so could I— 
it’s ‘S’ of course.” 

Miss Sheppard bridled and looked primly down. 

“Why, so it is,” said Savage. “Miss Stuart—I 
met her this afternoon with her pa. I tell you, honey, 
she’d make swell folk look common. You’ll see,” 
said he, “for I’ve asked them to dine on board 
to-morrow. ’ ’ 

But Prim Sheppard refused to meet Irene’s eyes. 


CHAPTER III. 


HOW GAVIN HEARS FROM HOME. 

After the first pleasant little dinner on board the 
yacht, Irene and her father stood at the gangway 
and watched their guests row ashore. Marjory turned 
in the stern sheets of the row-boat and waved, and 
Savage smiled to Irene. 

“Well,” said he, “is that not the most beautiful 
creature you’ve ever seen?” 

“She’s very nice,” said Irene. “I like her father 
—he knows about things, treaties and policies, and 
soldiers and horses, and old wars, but his daughter 
reminds me of something, some wild fierce thing in 
a cage,” and Irene went down to her wards. 

But after that there were many meetings, and 
Marjory would ask Irene of the life in Europe, the 
life among white people, who lived in crowded 
thoroughfares, with no flocks and herds, no cattle 
and horses. How did the days go past—what was 
there to do from sunrise to sunset? and Irene would 
tell of people who never dreamed of retiring to rest 
at sunset—nay, of people who only rose when the 
sun was long past the meridian, and Marjory would 
try to understand. 

“But now,” said Irene, “all that is changed. The 
266 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


267 


men are away-—the men may never return, and the 
women work, and work, and work, so that they may 
sleep in the night, and not think any more . . 

Marjory was looking at her intently. 

“Is there some one for whom you work, Irene V 1 
said she, “some one absent, who sends thoughts to 
you in the night 

‘ ‘ There are many; my country is now at war. The 
boys that I knew are in uniform, and a uniform 
seems like grave-clothes to me.” 

“But is there no one man?” said Marjory. 

“There is one man,” said Irene, pulling at the lace 
of a handkerchief, “but I do not know if he is in 
this war. I do not know where he may be, alive or 
dead I do not know, only”—Irene put her hand to 
her heart, her eyes were very large and bright,— 
“only I feel in here that he is fighting, and laughing, 
and that he has forgotten me.” 

“But no man would forget you, Irene; you are 
so white and beautiful, and Western women never 
grow old. In the East, the women wither in the 
sun.” 

And Irene that night looked at her boy in armour. 
Many times had she thought to show Marjory her 
hero, but always something held her hand, some¬ 
thing deep down and inexplicable, like an instinct; 
and Marjory had Gavin’s letters with her always, 
and yet she would sit and talk, and sometimes even 
touch them to make sure they were safe, but these 
were not to be talked of. 

And Gavin about this time received his first home 
mail. There were from home four letters, and these 
had many blue pencil marks on the envelope, with 


268 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


cryptic remarks to “try” here and try there, until 
eventually they reached their destination. Gavin 
felt a desire to be alone to read these first letters. 
He picked out Marjory’s and read them first, long 
and yet businesslike, with no words wasted, no news 
of battle, no rumours of new assaults, but simple 
everyday duties and happenings anent her father 
and herself, and a brief little warning at the end 
that Gavin be not over-rash. There was a long 
description of her friends on board the white yacht, 
of how she was pleased that her father was not 
wearying so much now. For herself, she had learned 
much from Western ladies. Marjory was impressed 
with the tireless energy of Western ladies. “All day 
they can work with their hands, doing menial tasks 
joyfully, and looking in the evening cool and white, 
like flowers in the dusk.” There was no word in any 
of her letters about the Amir. 

After Marjory’s letter, Gavin opened Mairi Voullie 
Vhor’s, and he could trace the shaking of her hand 
in the characters. Her letter was most difficult to 
read, for that she, having finished a sheet of paper, 
continued to write across what was already written. 

“My Dear Lad, 

“I’m writing to you, and I don’t know 
where you are, but wherever you are, you will be in 
God’s keeping. Your mother has written and your 
father, when they got your address, and we got a 
postcard saying ye were everything but kilt, which 
is the main thing. Ye have been away a long time, 
and the world is upside down since then, and boys 
that were running messages for their mothers yester¬ 
day are sodgers the morn. Ye would not ken the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


269 


bay for big ships painted like rainbows. I’ve been 
mindin’ a lot of stories I forgot to tell ye when ye 
were wee. I wish to God ye were wee yet, Gavin. 
Peter Dol goes for the letters every day, and he’s 
able to take his dram, without water , and that’s a 
good sign ...” There were here and there addi¬ 
tions to Mairi’s letter, little scraps in Pate’s hand. 
“The brown mare had a clinker”—this would be a 

foal, or “We got- for the wool,” and “I put a 

new plank in the skiff,” and there was a small folded 
scrap well fastened with stamp edge, and inside, 
“Mind the click-ma-doodles,” Pate had written. 

His mother’s letter and his father’s made him feel 
sad, but Mairi’s made him lonely, desperately lonely. 

There was one more letter, and he opened it and 
unfolded the sheet. There was a single line written 

years ago. . 

“Oh, Jim, we’ve wasted an awful lot of time: 
Irene,” and Gavin read and reread these ten words 
over and over, as if they contained or might contain 
some deep secret if he but searched long enough. 
He remembered his anger, his hurt pride, his scorn, 
but now he felt none of these. What a soft little 
lass, with her little shy brave line! Why, she should 
never have remembered him at all, with his boyish 
greatness! What a fool she must have thought him! 
Gavin’s tanned face burned at the thought of it. 
How could he ever speak to that girl again? He 
scorned himself as he had been, but he kept Irene s 
line, and often he would look at it. 

But there was little time for reading or writing. 
The Amir was an ally of Britain; his cavalry operated 
with the dashing Light Horse of Australia, his camel- 
men with the Camel Corps. Jerusalem was fallen. 


270 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


There were troops inarching north at Jaffa, troops 
in the hills of Judea, troops beyond Jordon. The 
Turk was falling back. Day after day the hurrying 
was plain to see—bullocks left dying in their yoke; 
shells, shells everywhere in heaps by the wayside; 
dead horses swelled in the sun, their legs sticking 
stiffly upwards; camels lying awaiting death. 

The Amir was in the council of the British General, 
Gavin was in British uniform. The end was not yet, 
but the end was not afar off, when the Amir called 
Gavin to his quarters. 

“We go to Europe , 1 y said he. “I am a stranger 
to the West, to everything but the thoughts of the 
West, and you will be a guide to me in those things 
that a man should do,” and Gavin grinned at that. 
“I have seen the British might in Mesopotamia, in 
Arabia, in Palestine. It may be that the old man, 
my father, will be a king of a new country, or it 
may be that I shall be a king. God will decide, 
but it is the will of the Allies that I should travel 
to London and there hear certain things, and to 
Paris. There are competent leaders to set my troops 
in array for battle. You have taught many the art 
of fraying a retreating army. We will be in Cairo 
in seven days from now. We will see the sweet 
water of the canal brought for mile on mile over 
desert sand. We will see the railway, mile on mile 
of new railway. We have watched a soldier make 
war, sparing no effort, neither wasting life reck¬ 
lessly, solving his problems with masterly skill, ap¬ 
praising everything, forgetting nothing; but you, 
who have been my right hand, my tower of strength, 
my wild flame leading on, you will come with me, 
that the strangers of your blood may do you honour.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


271 


And Gavin was in Cairo before Marjory got his 
hurried letter. Douglas met Savage then with news 
of departure—a friend would be in Cairo; it was 
imperative that he be there to receive him, and John 
Savage was loath to part with his friend. 

“I think,’’ said he to Irene, “that we will forget 
sickness and sorrow and death for a little, and the 
madness of the world, and go for a little to live 
where there is music and laughter.” 

Irene smiled. “And that means ...” 

“That means that my friend, who calls himself 
Stuart, and your friend, his daughter, intend packing 
back to Cairo. I like Cairo and you’ll like it, and 
I think we might travel together and see Coptic 
churches, and mosques, and bazaars, and have dinner 
on the spacious balconies of famous hotels, and watch 
the world going by.” 

And Irene was glad to think of a respite for a 
little, and ashamed to be glad. 

“I think it is wrong to be happy now. I feel that 
there should be nothing but sternness, and duty, and 
God, in the hearts of people who have only to work 
and wait while men are slaying men, and God is 
gone a-hunting in other worlds.” 

Savage stared at his daughter. 

“Do you know,” said he, “that is the first time I 
have ever heard you speak of relig—of the Almighty ? 

“I know,” cried his daughter. “All my life I 
have cried, and got my plaything. I have taken 
service as my right. I have done nothing, nothing, 
nothing. I have sent no man to fight for God and 
the King-” 

“There is no king in the United States,” said 
Savage, but his daughter was unheeding. 


272 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“-knowing that if die he must, there will be 

one to venerate his memory. I have not been one 
of those great women who have loved freedom and 
right so well that they could bear the torture of 
absence, the fear of death, hour by hour, day by 
day, for months, for years, dreading a postal mes¬ 
senger. ’ ’ 

“You must not think like that, Irene. I am old, 
I have given money, but you are young and you have 
given service; you have saved many men for other 
brave women-” 

‘*1 wanted—I wanted to save one for myself , 17 said 
Irene, and laughed through tears. 

“Persevere, my dear; but a little while out of 
harness will refresh you, like a colt roaming in grass 
land for a little.” 

So Irene and her father travelled to Cairo with 
Sholto and Marjory—a Marjory that Irene had never 
known, a girl who could laugh so softly, so happily, 
that Irene was amazed. 

“I am glad, glad, glad,,” she whispered to Irene, 
“for a friend is come safe from battle, and I will 
hear the ring of his spurs, and the tones of his voice.” 

“I have no such friend,” said Irene softly, 
“no friend but hard work and duty, and I think 
rest.’ * 

And in her hotel Irene kept her room for two days, 
content to rest. She listened often with a smile to 
the bantering of Kitty, her maid, with Dungannon. 
She would have no advice from Prim Sheppard. All 
she wanted was rest. 

Her father sat with her and petted her. * 1 1 knew, 
honey, that you were tired out. It is only at the halt 
you find how tiresome and weary was the march. 




GAYIN DOUGLAS 


273 


The march is the main thing, but take you the advan¬ 
tage of the halt.” 

On another day, after Irene had driven with him 
in the city, Savage came to her room. 

“We’ve to dine with our friends to-night,” said 
he, “if you feel fit. I’ve seen Marjory’s friend. If 
I had had a son, he might have been like him. There’s 
a dance of sorts in the hotel to-night. That should 
do you good too. ’ ’ 

“I’d like to see Marjory happy,” said Irene. 
“Please accept the invitation, and go away and 
smoke now, for I know you want to; and I’ll think 
of what to wear, and then you’ll be proud of your 
little girl, even if she isn’t a boy, and I’ve lots of 
letters to write till it’s time to dress.” 

“In a little time she heard Dungannon’s voice, and 
smiled to hear Kitty tell him the mistress was lying 
down with a headache. 

“I’ve news will make her sit up wid a heartache, 
said the Irishman. 

And when he stood before her, his eyes were shining 
strangely. 

“What is it, Patrick?” said Irene. 

“It’s your husband, ma’am, the wan ye did not 
marry, he’s after having speech wi’ me. He’s for 
home,” said Patrick. 

I think that Irene knew that that evening she 
should meet him. She took infinite pains with her 
dressing, noting that her colour was high, and her 
eyes bright. There was a pleasant trembling in her 
limbs. She saw her lips moving, and laughed to 
know that already she was rehearsing how this meet¬ 
ing should go. Jim would meet her face to face in 


274 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


a corridor, or she would see him seated on the balcony, 
but Marjory was not once in her thoughts at all. 

There were many people gathered to dine, officers 
on leave, staff officers, hoys bronzed with the desert 
sun; there were beautiful women gathered, and yet 
many eyes were turned on Irene when she entered 
the dining-room with her father. Her eyes scanned 
different groups swiftly, but she saw no one resembling 
her boy in armour, and then Marjory was welcoming 
her, and she heard herself being introduced to Colonel 
Douglas. She saw the swarthy soldier bow slightly, 
met his steady blue eyes, and smiled, knowing that 
the room was growing dark before her, that her lips 
could utter no sound, knowing that Marjory’s friend, 
who had come safely from battle, was her boy in 
armour. And as Gavin sat, Irene saw a dull red 
creep beneath his tan, but knew not that the man 
was holding himself to ridicule—he, a hobbledehoy, 
to talk of marriage to this lady, to force his silly 
love—to plead for kisses. What excuse was boy¬ 
hood, or a daft training, for such ill-breeding, such 
unspeakable impertinence ? 

She must be nauseated still at the recollection, 
thought Gavin, and bowed his head in shame. And 
then he remembered her little letter. He looked at 
Irene’s hands; he visualised the white figure writing 
hurriedly. He was not conscious that Marjory was 
puzzled at his silence. Irene seemed to listen, but 
she was thinking, trying to count on what should be 
happening an hour hence. She saw Marjory look at 
Gavin and answer eagerly—did he question her ? And 
to this day she has not any idea of what she ate. 

The meal finished, they made their way to a lounge, 
and again Irene watched Gavin and Marjory talk 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


275 


and laugh like comrades. She felt lonely suddenly, 
as though all her life had been futile. She had no 
comrade, and yet she felt Gavin’s eyes on her. 

Then Savage proposed a turn to the ballroom. 
Marjory came near to Irene. 

“I w ill not dance,” said she, “but perhaps you 
will come to me after you have danced a little.” 

Sholto and Savage walked with Marjory between 
them up the wide carpeted stairway. Irene remem¬ 
bered always a bronze female statuette holding a 
lamp, and Marjory walking slowly upstairs with never 
a backward look. 

She felt her hand on Gavin’s arm, heard his voice 
speaking, and was suddenly afraid—afraid that she 
should not be able to speak at all. They glided away 
in a waltz, and once Irene looked quickly up at her 
partner and hurriedly looked away. She felt gauche; 
she wanted to talk, but could find no beginning of 
words. 

“Iam afraid I do not dance very well,” said Gavin. 
“I have wasted an awful lot of time.’ 

Irene looked at him, her mind a riot of thoughts. 
She felt afraid. She wanted to run away from him, 
and Gavin Douglas felt clumsy beside this shy little 
lady. 

“I will go to see Marjory, please,” said she, and 
bowed, and Gavin led her to her father, and took 
farewell of her. 


CHAPTER IV. 


IRENE AND MARJORY. 

And Marjory waited, motionless, on piled silken 
cushions, waited, patient as the East, but at her 
throat a little pulse throbbed, so that her silver scarf, 
shimmering, and heavy, and clinging, moved with a 
soft rustling. Through the open window a dim light, 
red-shaded, flooded the leaves of a palm; there came 
from far away the insistent tuck of a little drum and 
a voice singing. ‘ 1 How many days, how many 
nights V 9 —the cry of a wanderer. Beyond a heavy 
curtain her white narrow bed showed, cold and white 
like a vestal couch, and at the foot thereof a little 
Arab maiden lay as though asleep, a red rose at her 
feet. Dull silver gleamed at her waist, a broad belt, 
embossed and chased and carved, with all manner of 
little chains rustling with the gauzy black gown, in 
black and silver like a Queen of Night she waited. 
In her hair a diamond star glowed with primeval fires. 

So Irene found her—Irene a shimmer of white, her 
eyes wide, her cheeks red with mantling blood, her 
white bosom rebellious—Irene glowing with pride in 
her beauty. 

Through long dim corridors she had come; cor- 
270 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


277 


ridors with red granite pillars, deep windowed, with 
couches in secret places; corridors where white-clad 
servants moved silently, like flitting ghosts in dim 
spaces—the music was rioting in her blood. She 
came armed in beauty, the West awake. 

Marjory Douglas bowed, as a palm-tree sways to 
the desert wind. 

“You have come,” said she; “welcome!” and 
her voice was deep and soft like music. She clapped 
her hands gently. A silent-footed servant entered, 
bearing a silver tray and frosted glasses. 

“Something of coldness we know in these hot 
lands, yet have we not the clear cold streams of the 
North, where the stars are cold, and the sun afar off. ’’ 

“Some day, perhaps, you will come home ” said 
Irene, her lips moist, the frosted glass poised in her 
hand. “Come home and see the cool streams, and 
the flowers, and—and everything.” 

“What is there for me in that cold land, thronged 
with women—women striving with men, with no 
wide spaces, but paved ways everywhere, and no 
great desert winds onrushing, but cold blasts blowing 
in straight streets, and rain beating—what is there 
for me in that place?” Here was a new Marjory. 

“Why, there are millions of things to see—beautiful 
gowns, beautiful women, great buildings, great ships, 

wonderful shops, a paradise for women, dances-” 

Irene was breathless. 

“Ah!” said Marjory, “dances. Do you know of 
dancing in the West? I will dance some day when 
I am not any more a maid, dance as Miriam danced.” 
Her slow smile hovered, her eyes narrowed. See, 
she whispered, “you strange maiden, come from a 
man’s arm who is not your lord, see, and she kicked 


278 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


off her little shoes. There came a low murmur of 
music, wild and barbaric . . . 

“You are a girl, you are a girl, sure,” said Irene. 
“I loved you taking off your stockings,” for Marjory 
had done that, “and he is my lord, I think.” 

A sort of wildness came into Marjory’s face. 

“A Western woman’s lord—what is he—what 
would you of him? To stand silent while you speak 
to other men, to open doors, to be always a slave? 
Do you take him, the lion of the desert, back to these 
little things ? ’ ’ Her body swayed a little. Her voice 
was low like a whisper. 

“See in the night, unknown, I have ridden in his 
train. I have heard his voice calm a great war steed. 
I have loved the anger and the patience in it. I have 
seen the curving of his stern lips in my dreams—that 
stern mouth. I have seen his sword like the flaming 
brand of Michael, I have heard his voice in song in 
the thick of fight. Ah, well the Bedouin knew his 
gleaming brand. In single combat I saw him slay 

a man, a bearded man of power-” Her eyes 

were lit up, her lips smiled. “What do you know of 
such as he? Have you seen horses rearing, with 
gleaming teeth—great gleaming teeth a lather of 
bloody foam? Have you seen a horse borne back 
on his haunches, with little leaps, and the red sand 
trampled? Have you seen a warrior rise in his 
irons, and the bright blade sheer home? Have you 
seen him spring to horse when my father’s household 
—desert born—would fain have slept? What have 
you for such as he?” 

I think that Irene was afraid. Her words would 
not come—she was breathless and yet without 
exertion. 



GAVIN DOUGLAS 


279 


“I have myself—my—my body, and my soul, and 
my love,” said she, and she looked at Marjory as a 
child looks being questioned, and yet not sure. 

“The beauty of your body to delight him—you 
have that. Your soul! I knew not that women had 
souls—and your love! You strange woman, what 
do you know of love? Love to you is the homage 
of a man, the envy of women, the delight of dress¬ 
ing, the power over other men, the withholding of 
the’so beautiful body. Love!” she whispered, and 
was still. “Love to me is giving—the beauty of my 
body, does it pleasure my lord? It is well. Can 
my hands over his heart bring him joy? Can his 
head find rest on my heart? Is he restless in the 
night, does he dream of war? Ah, then, to be awake 
to hold him, to whisper peace, to lie in the bend 
of his arm, to lay an arm gently on the arch of his 
chest and look at him, to walk on burning sands 
that he may ride, to labour with my hands that he 
may rest in shade. Love! this is my love,” and 
gently she moved, with eyes afraid to look up, 
trembling like a bride newly wed, her hands a-flutter; 
then in a little, looking upwards, one hand at her 
heart—how the music throbbed—backwards she trod 
slowly, slowly, a smiling in her eyes growing and 
growing. Her lips parted, slowly her hands moved 
to her hair, the jewelled star was withdrawn, and 
Marjory held a long thin dagger in her hand. Her 
hair fell around her like a night cloud, and the proud 
little head shook it back—a very girl’s ploy-oh so 
bravely, then the arms outstretched wide, wide; the 
dagger fell from her hand. Her eyes were soft, and 
looking upwards. Irene pressed hard against the 
wall. Her teeth were clenched; all unheeded the 


280 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


tears clung to her long lashes; but in her heart, 
in the very elements of her being, there was hate. 
Marjory swayed forwards, her hands trembling at 
the clasps of her silver girdle—the heavy scarf was 
fallen—her eyes were aflame with love—the music 
was a madness of abandon. 

“I kissed him, kissed him—hard.” Her own voice 
frightened Irene. “Kissed his stern mouth—it is 
mine—he is mine—he is all mine.’’ 

A sort of tremor shook the dancer, between her 
brows a line formed, the blood ebbed from her face 
and bosom, her hand groped for the dagger. She 
was the East afire. Before Irene she came, her little 
laugh was joyous, was full of pride. 

“For a moment—for a moment I would have slain 
thee, but is there woman born of woman could say 
no to my lord to be? Go, woman, go and speak to 
him among strange men, you that had, yet could not 
hold. A boy’s kiss—see, I take it back,” and lightly 
her lips touched Irene’s mouth. “Some day, ah, 
one day my lord will kiss my feet. You know,” she 
whispered, “you know. A boy’s kiss,” and again 
came her low laughter. “In the streets, in many 
cities he is known; behind closed shutters women 
whisper his name, Assyrian beauties dream long 
behind their veils; my little slave will whine the 
Gaiour’s name asleep across my feet. Go, go to him 
—so will not I—yet will the desert fight for me— 
the call of the sands is in his heart, and I am of the 
sands —we are birds of the mountain! For you there 
is the lights of cities, the throng of people, the ad¬ 
miration of men, but oh, one day my lord will kiss 
my feet, and his son’s hand lie like a flower at my 
throat.” 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


281 


Suddenly she clasped Irene in her arms and kissed 
her fiercely on the lips, again and again. “Go,” she 
whispered, “go quickly.” 


Again sat Marjory alone, her little brown hand at 
her brow; then slowly she moved to a writing-table. 

“Sit down,” said she, and smiled, “sit down and 
write swiftly.” There seemed a fierceness of resolve 
on her dark face. 

In neat Arab writing she penned her message to 
the Amir Abdul. 

“The war is blown by in the desert, and I will 
return to my father’s house, and gather together again 
our people. When he returns from his journey in 
cold Western lands, my . lord will doubtless rest his 
horses under the shadow of our walls, and suffer his 
handmaiden to bring water for his feet, and a change 
of raiment ... 

“May Allah, the all-powerful, be thy strength. 

With much care she sealed her note and sum¬ 


moned a man-servant. 

“ Deliver this to the hand of the Lord Abdul, and 
fetch me from the bazaar perfume—and from without 
the city, a little sand,” and to the little maid who 
lay in the inner room awaiting her 

“Thou heardest,” said she. “See, then, that 
Mahmud be given money that he fetch to-day a 
tunic of his master’s, that I may work a charm, for 

luck against his far journey.” 

The little maid bowed and retired, and her mistress 


sat alone. 


CHAPTER V. 

IRENE AND GAVIN. 

Irene flung herself on her bed, her eyes wide, the 
pupils dilated. Ever and anon her lips quivered, her 
chin moved like a vexed child’s. When stinging tears 
came to her, she shook her little head as though to 
stay them. Her hands were clenched on her bosom. 
Did she close her eyes, she could see again the dark 
beauty of Marjory, the slim graceful limbs moving, 
the sheer loveliness of her face and throat—“a bird 
of the mountain,” she whispered, “wild and free, 
and fierce to love or hate.” She saw the rich dark 
mass of her hair, saw again the long fingers pluck 
blindly at the silver girdle, the eyes with love no 
longer languorous, but ablaze to meet love. Then 
she knew in a flash, what before she had known but 
dimly. It had been a bridal dance. A little low cry 
left Irene’s lips, a long shudder went over her. What 
did she know of love? All her life she had had 
deference—except—except from her boy in armour. 
Now she knew that she craved more, craved to be 
desired, to be taken, to be held to a man’s heart, to 
wind her arms round him, to give herself up soul and 
body. 

Her father’s words flashed into her mind. “Had 
282 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


283 


yon had a brother, honey, he might ha’ been like 
that.” She saw again the wistful look in his eyes, 
the look of the man with no son and no grandson. 
Listlessly she rose and slowly undressed, moving 
silently. She would bathe and then lie in the hot 
darkness, wide-eyed, and dream—all her life now she 
must dream. If only anger would come or pride to 
her aid, but she could not deceive herself any more. 
She wanted the great dark man to love her and be 
gentle. She felt wee, and soft and babyish, when she 
thought of that other woman, so splendidly brave. 
She saw herself in her long mirror and smiled wanly 
—so white she looked, with her eyes dark-shadowed. 
Again there came that other, with long hands flutter¬ 
ing blindly at her virgin girdle. And then—then a 
great wave of colour rose to her very brow, her lips 
parted, her eyes became shamed, she leaned a little 
forward, her open hands pressing her throat. 

Quietly she turned the taps for her bath, bare¬ 
footed she sped to her task. She twisted up her hair 
like a thick rope, she poured eau-de-Cologne into the 
water, and she laved herself, her face burning . . . 

Before her mirror again she stood, a little lace cap 
on her hair, her feet in little slippers. Oyer shimmer¬ 
ing silk she drew a great kimono. “He is my man,” 
she whispered to her image. “He is my man, and 
I will go to him. ... I am white like milk,” she 
whispered, “and fragrant with perfume to go to my 
love.” Then, strangest of all, she kneeled beside her 
bed, her arms outstretched on the coverlet, and rose, 
and with never another look, walked softly to the 
door. 

She saw his great riding-boots and spurs before 


284 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


his door. She must hurry lest people come—if the 
door were locked—if—if there should be any one 
with him. Then again, “He is my man.” At her 
door she stood. “No,” she whispered, “no, I will 
not do this shameful thing. I will not live to scorn 
my father’s daughter.” For a little while she would 
stand and look out over the dark city. Suddenly 
a door opened wide, and Gavin stood before her. 

Her hands stretched towards him, she tottered 
forward. 

“I’m not wicked, Jim—oh, I’m not a wicked girl,” 
she whispered, her trampled resolve still in her mind, 
and she clung to his tunic in a passion of weeping. 
She felt herself gathered into his arms. She breathed 
in short gasps. Against her side she could feel the beat 
of his heart. His hand lifted her head till her eyes 
were looking at his, his face seemed cruel and scorn¬ 
ful. She could not keep her eyes open, but let the 
eyelids flutter down. If only he would speak! And 
yet she was afraid of what he might say. His eyes 
were burning down into hers, his mouth was close 
above hers. What would Marjory do? Well, she 
cared not. She was in the arms of her man. 

“I am a good girl,” she whispered, “I am only 
yours,” and there came a little smile to her face, 
as his face came nearer. She was lifted off her feet. 
His lips were burning, his hands gripping her cruelly, 
but she cared not. She clung to him, her lips answer¬ 
ing kiss with kiss. She was conscious of the length 
of his limbs, of the tremendous girth of him, for 
her arms could not go round him. Her hair was 
falling round her, and she knew by his glance that 
he loved it. Why should she have shame? He was 
her man. What were father and country now ? She 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


285 


thought of herself as of a stream wandering amidst 
forgotten meadows, by far inland bridges, in far still 
backwaters, its destination unknown, its destiny un¬ 
fulfilled, and then seething and onrushing, leaping in 
love to the sea. He set her on a couch, and looking 
at him, she saw that he was angry. There was a scowl 
on his brow, and with a new vision, she knew that 
she had aroused all the evil in his nature. Passion 
and anger are twin brothers in the household of 
Hate and Love. She knew that love must war with 
evil, and she feared not. The man who could calm 
a great war steed would put a bridle of iron on him¬ 
self. Yet after passion, there might come tenderness, 
if he loved her; but if he had no love, might not he 
turn from her, drive her from his side? Might not 
he keep her here, then cast her aside like a soiled 
glove after—after . . . and return to that desert 
woman ? 

“Oh, Jim,” she cried, “do you love her?” Her 
eyes met his bravely and refused to be looked down. 

“I don’t know love,” said he in a snarl, but she 
felt his hand tighten on her shoulder, and with his 
words she clung to him, pressed herself to him. 

“Well, know it soon, my dear, know it soon,” 
her voice broke pitifully, “for I—I—c-can’t bear 
much more.” 

“Have you a revolver hidden about you?” he 
sneered at her, but she only smiled. 

“Where have you jumped to now?” she whis¬ 
pered softly. She lifted his hand and put it at her 
cheek, and rubbed her cheek against it. “I was 
keeping myself for my man—for you,” said Irene. 
“You will not be angry for that.” She could not 
look away from him—wave after wave of love surged 


286 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


through her. She must hold him in her arms—she 
wanted to hurt him, that her own pent-up feelings 
might be let loose. Her little slippers had fallen, her 
feet were hare. 

“Ah, one day,” she whispered, “my love will kiss 
my feet.” She saw Marjory as in a vision, and 
leaped to her feet and stood hack from Gavin, her 
eyes afire, her bosom rising and falling. “Tell me 
you love me,” she said in a low whisper, fierce like 
a hot wind. “Tell me—tell me . . .” He was 
coming nearer to her, but she beat him off. “Tell 
me,” she panted, “tell me.” She felt herself swept 
off her feet, into his arms, like a child. He was kiss¬ 
ing her lips, her eyes, her chin, her throat. 

“No,” he said, “no, I will not tell you; but, by 
God, you will tell me instead! ’ 9 

“You know,” she whispered, “you know. Look 
at me. I love you—love you—love you more than 
heaven and earth. I have been cold to the world, 
cold and proud and haughty in the day before the 
world, but at night—at night I have lain with my 
arms wide for my husband, that loved me once 
long ago . . .” 

“You little lass,” said Gavin, “you brave little 
lass! . . .” 

“And—and when I found you, you were cold. I 
might have been a chair, or a table, and that—that 
woman—I hate her! I tell you I hate her, for she 
said you were not mine—you did not love me—that 
other women loved you—oh, horrible!” 

“And are you my wife truly?” said Gavin, and 
she saw him smiling. She could not speak at first, 
but she nodded her head like a child. “Oh yes,” 
she sobbed, “oh yes, I must be . . .” 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


287 


He mocked her then. “All mine! Will I brand 
you as I brand my horses, with a bleeding heart ?” 

“My darling,” she cried, “oh! you have—you 
have already—feel here!” She held his hand to 
her breast. “Do you feel your brand,” she whis¬ 
pered, “aching and burning?” 

He put her back from him a little. “Stand up,” 
he said, “like a brave lass. You would not be shy 
before your man”—for her eyes were pleading. 

“Ah, do not be cruel any more!” she whispered. 
“Do not make me stand away from you and look 
at me.” 

“No, but stand!” said he. “I love you to stand. 
Now,” said he, “I never loved till I met you, when 
I was a daft boy. I have never loved but you, in all 
my life. Horses and cattle and men I have dealt 
with and found peace, but always, when I thought of 
you, I knew that I had missed the greatest thing.” 

Suddenly he drew her towards him. “Do you 
know,” he whispered, “do you know that to-night 
when you sat opposite me, I never heard one word, 
but your words? To-night I could have come to you 
and carried you off and made you love me—do you 
h ea r?—made you love me, but for shame of that 
other time long ago!” 

“But I did love you, darling.” She patted him 
and pulled his head down till her lips were at his ear. 
“I prayed for you to come,” said she, and buried 
her face against him. “Sure you are my husband, 
darling—sure yes?” said Irene. 

“Do you know,” said Gavin, “that I think yon 
marriage was not right? You had not been domiciled 
in Scotland . . 

Irene’s head bent lower. “I know,” she whis- 


288 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


pered, “I know, but—but if you like I-IT1 risk it. 
Oh don’t, dear,” she whispered, “don’t!” for 
Gavin’s laughter filled the dim corridor, and always 
she must laugh when he laughed. So had he laughed 
at her in the Look-Out. Then in a little she lay 
against his heart. “I’m glad you met me first,” 
said Irene, with a little air of wisdom. “I am not 
beautiful like that—like Marjory, and she loves you, 
Jim; I know she loves you.” 

She saw an impatient frown gather on his brow, 
for she was watching like a jealous woman, and said 
she, “I will never speak of her again—never— 
never!” 

“And that would be a pity too,” said Gavin, “for 
Marjory is a very fine lass and brave, and she will 
grace an Arab’s tent, and maybe—maybe if things 
would go right—Marjory might yet be a princess, 
and maybe—but,” said he, “a bird of the air shall 
carry the matter. Are you a little spy, darling ... ?” 

“I think that I must be a little beast, but I hate 
that woman. Do you love her?” said she. 

Gavin smiled. 

“Did you ever love her?” 

It was droll to think that Irene had beaten her 
pride to the ground, had humbled herself, forgotten 
her imperiousness, her hauteur, forgotten everything 
but her love, and yet when she said, “Did you ever 
love her?” her tone was haughty, her eyes sparkled. 
But she had her master, and I think that she knew it. 

“My dear,” said Gavin, and his voice was stern, 
“If I loved her, do you think that you would be 
here?” 

At that answer Irene quivered a little. 

“I’ll go,” came to her tongue, but she stopped in 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


289 


time. “He might let me,” she thought, and laughed 
away down in her heart, that wisdom had come to 
her. She lay silent in his arms, in a little hay of a 
window, in her heart a great thankfulness that she 
had weathered the storm, for she knew that he loved 
her. She had been—was his to take. She had thought 
when he had swept her up into his arms, that on 
the morrow she might he neither maid nor wife— 
but now—now she knew that passion could not have 
satisfied her. She must have love, and she loved to 
lie in his arms, but with that came other thoughts. 
Had any other lain there? Could she always keep 
him? And then she resolved that she would take 
him from this land. He must have hard work and 
hard play, and she would be always sweet and frag¬ 
rant, listening to his plans. She almost slept, her 
arms around him, her head on his breast. 

She wakened with his lips on hers. The day was 
breaking. 

‘‘Hurry,’’ said he, “we must have something to 
remember this day. In seven minutes,’’ said he, 
“I’ll be waiting for you, to drive you to the 
desert.” 

“Oh, Jim!” she whispered, and then, “Well, kiss 
me,” and she sped to her door. She dressed with 
care, she must be nice, and then she stood with a 
wrap on her arm waiting. He came to her, long 
striding, smiling like a hoy. The streets were all 
but deserted. As the great car started, Irene looked 
back at the hotel, hut there was a glamour around 
her and she did not see a dark face gazing with 
unseeing eyes over the sleeping city. 

The air was cool, the gardens exhaled beautiful 
perfume of wet flowers. There passed them long 


290 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


convoys of camels carrying loads of yellow stone, old 
men seated on donkeys, and black-veiled women 
walking barefoot. Here and there groups of people 
still slept by the wayside under trees. She saw 
great black birds like crows sleeping in the crannies 
of houses. A little way from the Pyramids they left 
the car and walked. The sand was trampled with 
innumerable footprints. There seemed also a white 
ghostly mist clinging. The stillness was broken by 
the snarling of barracked camels. Low down in the 
heavens there were long bars of dark cloud; the 
Sphinx was a great dim mass. On the desert they 
stood beside some fallen stones. 

“Look!” said Gavin, and pointed to the east. 

Irene leaned against him, his arm round her 
shoulders. 

“Look, my love,” said he, “the new day dawns 
for the East,” and in the new morning, when the 
sands were flooded with the red light, beneath the 
shadow of the great silent tombs of effort—sign 
manual in stone of a past power—Gavin Douglas 
took Irene Savage in his arms gently, as a man takes 
a maid, and kissed her lips, and she knew herself 
beloved. 

The dark leaden bars of cloud were lighted up, 
the edges burnished and glorious. Fluffy little clouds 
were ablaze like fire. Away across the sand were 
black shadows of moving camels; the drivers were 
singing. Gavin looked at the Pyramids, and Napo¬ 
leon’s words came to him, “Soldiers, remember 
that from these Pyramids forty centuries watch 
your deeds.” He mused on the Pharaohs, the Israel¬ 
ites; he visualised naked men working, building 
and hewing, and singing as they dragged a great 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


291 


stone into position. “ Forty centuries watch your 
deeds.’ ’ 

“I wonder if they noticed the soldier who knocked 
the nose from the Sphinx,” said Irene. 

“That,” said Gavin, “is the remark of Mairi 
Voullie Vhor ...” 

“Have you written always since—since you came 
away from the Rock?” 

“I sent a Service postcard.” 

“Well,” said Irene, “to-day you will send a long 
telegram.” Suddenly she came closer to him and 
whispered, “Thanks, thanks, thanks, for this bright 
morning, but last night—last night I must speak to 
you or die.” 

Bright and early came Patrick Dungannon to 
Irene’s door and knocked. A low singing came from 

inside. # . . 

“Sure,” says Dungannon, “phwat’s Kitty singing 

for this morning?” 

The maid came to the door smiling. 

“The misthress is not awake,” said she. ^ “We 
won’t require you to-day. Lave off wid ye, says 
she, for Dungannon’s hand had clasped her waist. 

“The day might come, Kitty darlin’, and ye want¬ 
ing me, and I might be gone on my travels again. 
I slep’ last night alongside av a boy from Mullmghar, 
and he told me he had gone through the gates av 
Gaza. Could ye imagine it?” 

“I could not now,” said Kitty, “and I wouldn t 
av I could. Gid away wid ye, alongside ^av a boy 
from Mullinghar indade. Ye’re ondacent.” 

“Kitty asthore, ye wouldn’t lave me like the boy 
from Cushendun?” 


292 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“I never knowed him, Pat,” said Kitty; “but I 
would leave you like a knotless thread for all that.” 

“Well now. ‘The boy from Cushendun turned 
his face another road, and whatever luck has followed 
him was never rightly knowed,’ and that’s what will 
become av me. Av I had been born rich, it’s a ganius 
I wud av bin.” 

“It’s a bla’guard ye wud av bin, ye mane,” said 
Kitty. “Quit foolin’,” says she, with a droll Ameri¬ 
can twang on her soft Irish brogue, “for I’ve lost a 
pair av boots wid white uppers, and tassels on the 
laces av them.” 

“Maybe the misthress is slapin’ in them,” said 
Dungannon hopefully. Kitty gave him a look. 

“Slapin’ your grandmother—and she was 

Docherty.” 

“Soul, and that reminds me av my ould mother 
in Avoca, Kitty. She told me the curse av Reuben 
would be on me till I found a lass that would lift it. 
I never knowed Reuben, but he was a powerful 
curser, for have I not wandered on the face av the 
green earth since I was eleven years old?” 

“I wish ye would wander away from here, Patrick, ” 
said Kitty, and came nearer. “Does your mother 
be in Avoca now?” 

“She does,” said Dungannon. “Will ye be so 
good now as to look afther her boy. I’m a thrifle 
dry in the hide wid this hot weather, but soul I’m 
good for another forty years.” 

“Has she a bit av a place?” says Kitty, and this 
time she stood closer yet. 

“I’ve houked praties yonder, Kitty, wid open your 
eyes, ‘white rocks’ and ‘champions,’ darling—and 
cruffles. ’ ’ 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


293 


“Well, then,” says Kitty, “I’ll take ye, Pat, if 
you’ll be good ...” 

Dungannon was in the act of paying some tender 
respects to his Kitty, and indeed she seemed to be 
expecting that same, for her eyes were on his face, 
and he looking suddenly saw her mouth open. She 
was looking over his shoulder. Dungannon spun 
round, and there was Gavin’s servant. 

“Phwat the devil d’ye want, Mahmud?” says he, 
loosing his belt. 

“Ashpan would be more like it,” says Kitty. 
“Batter him, Pat dear.” 

But Mahmud retired to the door of Gavin’s room. 
“Effendi no’ sleep,” said he; “Effendi no’ sleep. 
Boots no’ got—everything have got, boots no 9 got,” 
and he grinned. 

Kitty’s face changed. She darted to her mistress’s 
door and opened it. The bed had not been slept in. 

“Dungannon,” she cried, quickly folding garments 
silk and gauzy and foamy with lace, “Dungannon, 
the mistress was not in her bed last night.” Kitty 
began to tremble. “Who is this for an Effendi 
that’s across the corridor?” 

Dungannon seemed strangely moved. ‘‘I would 
rather not say, Kitty darlint, but the finest boy of 
boys between this and the Cove av Cork. I wance 
worked till his father.” 

“Is it the powerful tall boy wid the proud set to 
his head, and dark in the complexion?” 

“Ye have him, Kitty.” 

“If the misthress has him, it will be the less 
matter,” said Kitty, and sat down. 

“I’ll tell you a secret,” says Dungannon. “There 
should be none between us now. I was a witness at 


294 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


their weddin* sivin year ago till a day, and begob, 
Kitty, the first sivin’s the worst, they do be sayin\” 

Kitty was smiling and singing about the room all 
that morning after her mistress returned radiant as 
dawn. Dungannon was smarter in his uniform than 
usual, if that were possible. Miss Sheppard could 
not understand. She wearied to get back to Alex¬ 
andria, where at least there was a sea. All her prim 
world had tumbled about her ears. She might never 
see America again, never again sail past the statue 
of Liberty. Her thoughts were rudely shattered. 
Irene entered her room—a changed Irene—a soft 
radiant creature, smiling often, full of eagerness. 

‘ ‘I have invited Colonel Douglas to lunch,’’ said 
she. “Will you be very kind and leave them after¬ 
wards, my father and he . . .” 

Miss Sheppard rose slowly; she looked at Irene. 
“How long have you known him?” said she. 

“Seven years and one day,” said Irene. 

At lunch Savage was keen, like an old war-horse. 
He talked brilliantly. Irene wondered, and was 
pleased to sit silent and listen. She wanted to touch 
Gavin with her foot, just to let him know that she 
was loving him. She could not eat; her mind was 
picturing the night before. 

Gavin talked of his life in the desert, of the tre¬ 
mendous wealth yet to be garnered, in dates, copper, 
salt, oil, and grain. He painted a glowing picture 
of a new kingdom, of nomads changing to dwellers 
in great cities, of new peace and safety for the chil¬ 
dren of the desert. He talked best of his horses, 
talked as a lover of horses. Savage thought of a son. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


295 


Here was a man who would go far—already he had 
put his money on a wise road. This was a man after 
his own heart. 

Her father’s voice roused her. 

1 ‘Where were you born, Colonel?” said Savage. 

“London,” said Gavin, “but I spent my life on 
an island on the West Coast of Scotland—the Rock 
it is called.” 

Irene laughed. For the life of her she could not 
refrain from laughing. Her father looked at her, 
then at Douglas. 

“Say,” said he, “you’re not the boy my daughter 
shot?” 

“Well, I think I am,” said Gavin; “she brought 

me down very well too.” 

“For keeps, it seems,” said the millionaire. 


CHAPTER VI. 

DUNGANNON ’s LETTER. 

In these day: the hearts of the people were changed, 
the petty tioubles were forgotten, the youth was 
in the tented field, the men of years and women 
called on God. Mairi on the lonely Rock would hear 
the chime of the kirk bell at midday, and always her 
prayer was the same, 4 ‘God put the shot by Gavin. 
Bless our ain lads, and pit smiddum into the Eng¬ 
lish.’ ’ No matter her task, that was always her 
prayer. “But och, Pate,” she would say, “I turn to 
the East like a heathen, and try to send word to him, 
but a’ the length I get is just Ardrossan. I canna 
go past Ardrossan except I hiv the big Bible with 
the pictures o’ Apollyon chained to the chariot, 
and no’ such an ill-looking man either, chained or 
no’.” 

The loch was changed. Across the south entrance 
was a great net of wire ropes and a little drifter 
swinging like a doorway. 

“Never would I hiv believed it,” said Pate; 
“many’s the time I h’ard tell of a great chain that 
was across the south entrance, and a windlass for 
lowering and raising it for vessels, at the Point, close 
to the Vikings’ graves and the old round tower, but 
296 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


297 


never did I believe it till the now. And what’s 
more,” said he, “here are we chained in wi’ booms 
across the north and south entrance, and the bay 
fu’ o’ great ships like the old sailing days, and ye 
can whistle for a’ the wrack that’ll come in here, for 
it’s just chained out with the submarines. Blow 
high, blow low, there will be nae wrack for early 
tatties.” 

Daily he rowed across for the papers, and on one 
such day he pulled up the skiff and ran to the house. 

“God be praised!” cried Mairi, “Pate Dol is rin- 
ning; the war must be bye. ’ ’ 

“Do ye ken whit I hiv here?” cried Pate. 

“Aye, ye hiv a letter, Pate; is it frae Gavin, or 
your mother’s uncle that went to foreign parts?” 

“My mother’s uncle’s dust in foreign parts for a 
I ken. This is a letter. It’s mair than that; it’s an 
epistle as long,” said he, “as the 119th Psalm, and 
it’s frae Dungannon. Come ben the house. Lis¬ 
ten!” said he. “This is how he starts . . . 

“When we sailed away from ye that night, we 
laid a course for the western ocean, and she was the 
dirty devil to rowl yon yat, but a fine meal of meat 
aboord of her, and grog for the asking. The young 
misthress that said she was not Gavin’s spouse was 
a bonny sailor, and soul o ’ me! it’s me that would 
be tellin’ her the tales, me wi’ a guernsey with white 
letters on my chest like the sternboard of a pleasure 
boat, and a round kep, and a white top ontil it. It 
is a droll thing to me that them great folk with lash¬ 
ing of coin, must be for ever on the go, from wan 
house to another house, and shoals of claes, split 
new the ouldest of them, every wan.” 

“He’s across,” said Mairi. 


298 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


“Aye, to America; but listen, woman,” and Pate 
read on— 

“When it was not digging I would be at, or raking 
walks and sweeping leaves, it would be a hunting trip 
in the West, with double-lined tents and waterproof 
sheets—soul, it was a warning if I had knowed it, the 
tents and sheets,—but always on the go, and no stay¬ 
ing in wan place to get acquaint with the trees of it, 
let alone the people. But the money was good, and 
the warmest sate in the kitchen for Dungannon, even 
if I would be working in the stokehold av the houses 
to raise the heat for them. There are no rale fires in 
all this place, but what they will be naming a central 
heating, and that’s a poor thing to draw up your 
chair to. Whiles I would be looking after luggage 
and guns, and travelling in trains, and whiles I 
would have a horse to strap; but no matter, I was al¬ 
ways with the big folk, and the young misthress often 
listening to the fiddle, especially M’Pherson’s Rant, 
for that was the wan that I played on the Rock 
when I cam’ ashore from the Port Errol and met 
Gavin, and him a child, and many’s the young fellow 
would be paying her court, but no wan especially, 
and she would be whiles chief with wan and whiles 
another, but at night she would be for the fiddle 
and her eyes looking back o’ beyond. The auld 
fellow, her father—trogs and a lad too—would be 
here and there. ‘Tall hair’ and ‘queer fellow,’ he 
would call me and MacGinnis, and the war 
found us in the Mediterranean. I saw a stout ship 
brought to at Gibraltar with a little shell across her 
hawse, brought to rightly, and I knowed that the 
English were in earnest. 

“ ‘What was that?’ cried the young misthress. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


299 


“ ‘That,’ said the father of her, ‘was the birthday 
gun ay a new race av argentocracy. That/ says he, 
‘was the last volley over the grave av the ancient 
ordher, but what ancient ordher it would be I cannot 
come at.' I saw the Pharos at Alexandria and a dead 
mule in the wan glance—a dead mule floating out to 
sea and a seagull on it. I was thinking it was like 
Peter’s cow—it had altered most terrible to be letting 
a bird roost on it. They turned the yacht into a hos¬ 
pital, and they made me what they call an ortherly, 
and by me soul the barnacles on her keel will be a fut 
thick and the weed like an old man’s beard. The 
young misthress has a uniform on her, and doctors 
come here and nurses to attend the bhoys lying white. 
It’s the ortherly that has to listen to them crying out 
in the night with thick voices. Did not wan Irish bhoy 
cry aloud for a glass av butthermilk ? Oh, Jesus, think 
av it, an’ all I had was a skush out of a gas-engine. 

“I was for a trip to a place they call Cairo, a 
wonderful fine place, and the first sight that I rightly 
remember was in a public pleasure garden at the 
dusk, and on a sate there was a sodger and a wild 
west hat on him, smoking on a bench, and a little bit 
of a girl with a white veil below her eyes, and her 
smoking too, and his arm round her. They were not 
speaking much, and says I till him, for I was an 
ortherly, says I, ‘What wey will ye manage?’ and 
he said, ‘Rightly, rightly,’ says he; ‘skidoo, daddy, 
it’s a great war,’ but I liked the little wan that was 

smoking . . _ « , 

“The devil mend him; I warrant ye he wad that 

_him and his smoking weemen.” 

“Are ye talking?” said Pate; “there’s weemen 

smoking here.” 


300 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“Aye, and they’ll smoke hereafter,” snapped 
Mairi; “go on wi’ the body’s clatter.” 

‘ 1 The great thing the gentry do here is to go round 
mosques, wid goloshes on their feet that niggers put 
on till them at the door, like a public bowling-green, 
and hordes of beggars sitting airing their blemishes; 
but for me I would be watching the merchants play¬ 
ing at a game like a cross between dominoes and 
tiddley-winks, and them grave grown men, or else 
sitting by the roadside smoking a pipe like the sign 
in a chemist’s window—begob, whiles I would be on 
the racecourse, and it’s easy money, if ye have an eye 
for an Arab horse. They sell ye the devil’s own 
muck for dhrinks in the street, clinking their brass 
cups like the bells o’ Armagh. Well, wan day when 
the misthress was at a mosque or a museum, or see¬ 
ing where Moses came out av the rushes, I disremem- 
ber, I was wandering about and looking at a quare 
fine statue of a man on horseback in the middle av a 
square, when I h’ard a terrible piping and crying, 
and along comes a funeral wid ten Egyptians in 
trousers and red tarbrushes playing the bagpipes, 
and making terrible work o’ the Barren Kocks. 
Astern av them came a mob av wimen and their hair 
flying and their bodices improper, and throwing 
dhust and ashes on the heads of the spectators and 
crying dolefully, like a keening long ago. Their 
faces were scratched and wee kind o’ thimbles stuck 
ontil their noses, but I have no knowledge how they 
are to be made fast there. Well, with this and with 
that I disremember the distance I followed, but I 
was lookin’ up at a window where a woman was 
raisin’ a wail, and trying to fling herself on to the 
stones below. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


301 


“ ‘Yon will be the widow, the poor creature/ says 
I to myself, and a hand fell on me and sphun me 
round like a peerie, and God save ye! Gavin Douglas 
was looking down at me.” 

“Ah ha!” says Mairi in her most bitter tones, 
“that would waken him, as Johnnie M’Dougal said 
to the coo when he cut her throt.” 

Pate gave her a look and continued. 

“I stepped back three paces and saluted. ‘It 
came over me to go away yon time, sir/ said I. ‘I 
could not help myself.’ 

“Faith, his eyes were blazing blue wid a droop 
at the corners av the lid, and little white lines where 
another man has wrinkles. That would be wid the 
glare av the sun, and the face of him like the colour 
av saddle leather, and him moulded into his uniform. 
‘My ortherly will take you to me, Dungannon/ says 
he in a queer voice. ‘I’m glad to see the face av a 
man I know/ and he talked to his ortherly and left 
us. The ortherly was as black as your hat, with 
white teeth and a nate little duck tattooed at the 
corner av his eye, and the marks av a camel’s teeth 
on his cheek. 

“ ‘Korn, Misther Soldier/ says he, ‘me bloody 
good guide.’ ‘And that is a very good start/ says 
I. ‘Guide me to the officer.’ 

“ ‘Yes, a’ right/ says he, and grins. 

“Mahmud he called himself, and sowl, here he 
leads me to the very hotel where the misthress is wid 
her father. I took a pair av white boots in me hand, 
and I goes to her door, for I’m a batman when I’m 
not an ortherly, and I knocked. 

“Her little maid comes sniffing at the pipe-clayed 
shoes like there might be all the plagues o Egypt 


302 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


on them. ‘You cannot see Miss Irene,’ says she; 
‘she’s lying down with the headache.’ 

“ ‘Faith,’ says I, ‘Kitty, I’ve news ’ll make her 
sit up wid a heartache.’ 

“She was a little wan and tired-looking when I 
got to her, but smiled for all that. 

“ ‘What is it now, Dungannon?’ says she. 

“ ‘It’s your husband, ma’am,’ says I; ‘he’s living 
three doors along from ye in this house, and he wants 
speech with me.’ 

“ ‘Jim!’ It was a great cry, and ‘Oh, at last!’ 
and then she flopped down and lay as white and 
cold as a snowdrop in an ash-heap . . . 

“This is all at present from 

“P. Dungannon.” 

Pate took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. 

“It’s good,” says he, “that they are all quite 
well.” 

“Quite well!” said Mairi, “and the lass left lying 
on a divan! The devil mend this Dungannon, he 
never kent where to stop. But give me the letter 
for the mistress, for she’s been praying for the like 
o’ this.” 

But when Mairi had gone hurrying with the letter, 
coughing an important cough, and moving her feet 
in a fashion she had, when there was something of 
moment to tell to her employers—when she had done 
this, her husband winked to himself, and put his 
hand to his pocket and took therefrom a further 
portion of Dungannon’s letter. Pate Dol, that good 
old man, touched his temple with his forefinger, “I 
have it here, ’ ’ said he in a mysterious manner, which 
might indicate that his brains were in no wise im- 


GAYIN DOUGLAS 


303 


paired in the lifelong battle of his married life. He 
betook himself to the shelter of the ruined pier, and 
seating himself comfortably, produced his spectacles 
from beneath his cap and read as follows:— 

“Pate Dol—strictly private. 

“Well, Pate, I hope ye’ll keep your thumb on this 
letter from the old woman Mairi, for I think she could 
hoodoo the devil—saving his presence—let alone Dun¬ 
gannon. Things have progressed, as Peter said when 
the second twin was born, and I believe it’s me has 
progressed them—at all events, Gavin is to be mar¬ 
ried on his first wife, the girl I rowed to the white 
yacht, here in Cairo, and his relatives will be gone 
back to the desert on the other side of Jordan, as the 
hymn says, as pleasant a place as Fiddler’s Green 
where the sailor man goes till, and that’s seven miles 
on the other side of h— Maybe it will be that I’ll 
even manage to come back to the Rock; but if ye tell 
Mairi this she’ll prevent it some ways—bad cess to 
the dear sowl. The yacht and the young lady’s 
father and a lady governess ’ll be coming subse¬ 
quently, I understand (but I have doubts, that the 
lady-companion will twist it otherwise). Sowl and 
Gavin and the young misthress will be in London, 
and Paris, and the Good Powers know where, with 
the Prince av the desert, till such times as he learns 
all the ins and outs of European ways. Belike, 
Gavin or the misthress will write and tell all this to 
his father, but ye’ll give them the word not to tell 
Mairi until maybe we’re clear of the submarines, for 
it’s my belief she’ll never can forgive me except I 
was coming on her sudden. 

“I’m wearing for the sight of grass. It was my 


304 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


grandfather did tell me that in his day all the neigh¬ 
bours—the dacent people—did be helping each other, 
and they would put up a house in a day, and the 
night my grandmother—rest her sowl—went a bride 
to his house, the grass was growing green below the 
bed. The yearning for grass is in me strong. 

“So keep your weather eye lifting for 


“P. Dungannon. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE END. 

“Pate,” said Mairi, “was it not a merciful dispensa¬ 
tion that God took our wean ?’ 7 

“Wheesht, Main,” said her man; “what makes ye 
talk like that ? 77 

“I 7 ve been reading the newspapers and listening 
to the talk in the countryside. It is the law that a 
sodger must he kilt sober, hut if he daur take a dram 
on leave, he 7 s a degrading sight tae the good folk 
that bide at hame.” 

“They’re sorry, Mairi, to see a lad send his siller 
sic an ill gait—fine young lads gaun wrang.” 

“They're not; they’re hypocrites and Pharisees, 
the maist o’ the complainers. If ye had been in hell, 
Pate Dol, and got out, what would ye make for 
first?” 

“A drink,” said Pate, thinking of the rich man. 
“Aye, a wheen drinks; and if ye were to go back 
again, what would be your words to them that denied 

you a stirrup-cup?” „ 

“I would send them to the place I came irom, 

said Pate. 

“Ay, but to hear the talk now, ye would think 
that a’mother should he shamed to hear her son’s 
305 


306 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


step with a swing in it. God, there are thousands 
o’ mothers would give a’ they have to hear their 
boy’s step—if it was staggering—and they’ll no’.” 

“The sodgers noo,” said Pate, “are more the boys 
aboot the doors—dacent lads.” 

“Aye, the dacent lads are the sodgers that keep 
the doors aboot us, and the walls, and the roofs ower 
us, but the war will not be by a year when ye’ll hear 
well-fed hearty men crying sodgers doon for drunken 
wasters. ’ ’ 

“What’s wrong wi’ ye, lass?” said Pate. 

“Just the thought of a sodger wi’ a dram and the 
canty folks jeering. I hear the clip of rollocks,” 
said Mairi; “put the kettle on the fire.” 

“It’s near ten,” said Pate; “how would ye hear 
rollocks at this time?” 

“I hear the sound of a keel—listen!” 

Pate opened the door. 

“Not a sound,” said he, “but the waves breaking 
—not a light to nor’ard or suthard,” and he listened 
again. “It was like the sound o’ a keel on the 
stones too.” 

“I’ll put a gravat on me,” said he, “for the 
wind’s bitter at the North En’. It’s time I was at 
the watching. ’ ’ 1 And the old folk went outside. 

“I hear voices,” whispered Mairi in the darkness, 
and put her hand on Pate’s arm. 

“It’s the droll sounds in the wind and water you 
are hearing. Go back to a lighted room and the 
Book.” 

“No, but I am hearing voices. It’s a coorse night 
—the steamer did not venture across.” 


i Coast watching. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


307 


“No, but there was a drifter came over from 
Ardrossan. I heard her screw.’’ 

As Pate and his wife stood at the gate into the 
yard, there came a lively ranting air on the wind, and 
now and then the loup of a breaking sea would drown 
the sound, and again in a lown spell they would pick 
up the air, and the same thought was with both. 

“What is it o’clock?” said Mairi, in a voice scarce 
above a whisper. 

“About ten and flood-tide,” said Pate. “Poor 
Dungannon is going out with the ebb.” 

“Did ye hear it, Pate? He would be thinking on 
this place, the pleasant cheerful soul.” 

“I hear it now,” said Pate. “I hear it—and 
coming nearer.” 

“It’s M’Pherson’s Rant. Go you back to a lighted 
room. ’ ’ 

“Heaven is round about us,” said Mairi. 

“But for all that, we might be in hell any mo¬ 
ment,” said Pate, “as the lad said, coming down the 
Ross and the near rein broken.” 

“Come in and read a chapter, Pate; it will maybe 
help the soul to pass.” 

“I’ll give him a hail,” said Pate. “Patrick Dun¬ 
gannon,” he cried aloud, “are ye out there in the 
dark ? ’ ’ 

“I am, and bogfoundered wid it. Who keeps the 
house, for the son av the house is on the shore. It 
is me was sent to warn ye.” 

“Are ye in the body, in God’s name?” said Pate. 

“Did ever ye hear a spirit playing a fiddle? said 
Mairi with bitter scorn, and ran seaward, crying in 
the darkness— 

“Gavin, Gavin, are ye there, Gavin?” she cried, 


308 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


her voice wailing in the night, like a mother search¬ 
ing for a lost child. “Are ye there, Gavin—Gavin ? ” 
she whimpered; “oh, Gavin!” 

“I'm glaming for you, Mairi,” said Gavin, and 
there came loud cries in Gaelic. 

“I'll no , rage on ye, dear,” said the old woman. 
“I'll no’ rage on you. Come hame, my love, come 
hame,” so she used to cry when Gavin played truant. 

Gavin held her in the dark. She was whispering. 

“He pit the shot by ye—he took ye from the 
dreadful pit, and took ye hame.” 

“And a wife hame with me,” said Gavin, in no 
very matter-of-fact tone. 

“And that’s the least of his mercies,” said Mairi, 
and her tone made Irene put her head back and 
laugh. 

“Well,” said she, “and that is what my father 
would call gall.” 

“Come in,” cried Mairi, “come in. Are ye cold, 
mistress? There’s fine wood fires to heat ye, an’ 
middling peats.” 

And with that there came Janet Erskine hurrying, 
a lamp in her hand and her eyes wide. 

“Is this dainty little lady my daughter, Gavin, 
the daughter you have brought me?” 

“Take her in, mistress, for I have sheets to air. 
It will only be the one bed. Gavin will be wanting 
his ain room, it’s likely.” 

And by some queer chance Irene’s little soft hand 
caught Mairi’s old and twisted and work-hardened, 
and squeezed it unseen in the dark of the porch, 
while the mother and son met, and by that free¬ 
masonry of women they were friends there in the 
dark. 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


309 


Mairi took Irene’s coat and held the fur against 
her face—there was a faint perfume clinging to the 
garment, a something that almost visualised the deli¬ 
cacy and fragrance of the wearer. The old woman 
patted the coat gently. 

“And she’s a right lass,” said she to herself, “and 
that’s better to sleep wi’ than a long pedigree.” 

And Janet led Irene to Gavin’s father, who had a 
great chair ready for her, pulled close in to the blaze 
of the fire, where she could warm her feet, for even 
the most beautiful of girls can have cold feet, and 
Janet Erskine ran for her own little fur-lined slip¬ 
pers, and Gavin knew that this was no make-believe 
welcome, for there are folk that take not kindly to 
strangers, however their good manners would try to 
hide it. Then they were all at the questioning. 

How did they come across and no steamer, and 
where did they come from? And Janet Douglas 
went into the kitchen and welcomed Dungannon, 
who was the fine fellow, and Pate was putting fine 
split logs on fires in every end of the house, and 
Dungannon telling Mairi of the fine harbours in the 
Grecian islands, “as safe as if ye were to come to 
anchor in a wash-hand basin,” “and in trogs I saw a 
ship and her half in and half out av the sea, and a 
couple av sloops av war staming along abreast av us. 
The Lord save ye, it must have been a pleasure to be 
at sea when there were lights in lighthouses, and sail¬ 
ing lights for vessels, and sowl, we thocht we were 
living a dog’s life too.” 

And later in Gavin’s room, with a great fire burn¬ 
ing, Irene sat with Janet Douglas, and there seemed 
more of complete understanding between these two, 
than between mother and son. 


310 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


Janet was sitting before the blaze and Irene on a 
white rug at her feet, her face turned to the elder 
woman, whose white hand was on her hair, and there 
was in the eyes of the mother a look of pride and love 
as she looked down on the dark little head. 

“I must tell you,” said Irene, ‘ 4 there was his 
cousin Marjory. I thought he loved Marjory; I 
don’t know why he didn’t even yet ...” 

Janet smiled. "There’s a mirror behind you, my 
dear,” said she. 

Irene waved her hand. "No,” she whispered, "I 
could never be so beautiful as Marjory or so graceful, 
—she made people look common, and she could do 
everything. I was afraid that Gavin must see-—he 
thought that she was like a boy—a good comrade, a 
horse-master, never tired, but I knew—oh, Gavin’s 
mother, I knew—I saw her dance. I heard her speak 
of him. When she called him 'kinsman,’ it was a 
caress. Oh, I hated her. I hate her, but Gavin 
loved her like a brother. If she had had any 
women’s tricks, if she could have fainted, or 
screamed, or been afraid and Gavin with her, he must 
have known, but she was too—too noble. When 
she looked at me, I felt like—like two cents —very 
mean and pitiful—and I’m not like that,” said Irene. 

"No, dear, no, you are not like that; you are my 
little girl ...” 

"I want to be,” said Irene. "I am a girl. I hate 
mannish women, but Gavin didn’t know. She was 
more womanly than I—only I had all the little catty 
tricks, but Marjory thought he should surely know. 
It was terrible—like a beautiful woman speaking on 
her fingers clumsily.” 

"But,” said Janet, "it’s all past now,” and she 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


311 


rose and the two women stood in the firelight, in the 
light that showed Janet’s hair snow-white, for white 
hair was a plentiful crop in the war years. 

“But,” said Irene, “she said ‘the desert sands 
will call to him, and I am of the sands. We are birds 
of the mountain.’ ” 

“Did Marjory resemble Gavin?” said Janet. 

“In everything. They loved the same things; 
they talked of books like the characters in books; 
they would think the same things at the same time. 
Even there was a family likeness, but Gavin always 
loved Marjory like a boy. He never knew—if—if 
ever he were to know I would be afraid. I want 
him away from the East. Do you know,” said Irene, 
with a little laugh, “they agreed about horses.” 

With that Mairi came with her aired sheets. There 
was a twinkle in her eyes, a kind of keen old sparkle. 

“Gavin and his father will be wearying,” said 
Janet; “come down, dear, when you are ready . . .” 

Mairi went on with her duties, just waiting to be 
spoken to, but “kenning her place.” 

Irene looked at her with smiling eyes. To the old 
woman this wife of Gavin’s looked very young, for 
all her beauty and brave attire. 

Irene came close to her. 

“Do you think that I have spoiled him for other 
women?” she whispered—“spoiled him good and 
proper? Do you remember, Mairi?” 

“I was only an old wife doing my best for the 
lad,” said Mairi, “but, my dearie, I think that you 
are fit for it. If any lass could keep her lad it will 
be you. But make him work hard,” said she, “and 
sleep sound. You will be able to trust him when he s 
sleeping. ’ ’ 


312 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


And that was not altogether a nice thing to be 
telling a young wife, but I think that at first Mairi 
was a little jealous. She said that at all events, and 
she said it for some reason, for she was very wise. 

“And now,” said she, “there’s your place,” and 
Irene blushed. 

And when Gavin and James Douglas were alone, 
they talked much of Sholto the exile—the man whose 
punishment, for all his bravery, was more than he 
could bear. 

“It was a sore parting,” said Gavin. “ 1 We ’ll go 
back to the desert to wait for your coming again, 
Marjory and 1/ said he, and Marjory stood smiling, 
saying nothing. 

“His dreams,” said Gavin, “are always at home. 
He will tell you the colour that the gates were 
painted when he was a boy, and where there were 
crops in fields that have been heather for thirty years. 
I think,” said Gavin, “that when Marjory has sons,” 
and at that he stopped suddenly and stood up. 

Irene sat listening, and often she looked at her 
husband. There was a far-away look in his eyes, as 
though he were thinking . . . 

Janet Erskine had sewing in her lap, t though she 
did not sew much, but sat with the needle stuck into 
the white fabric; and after some little time of silence, 
Irene lifted the sewing and looked at it wisely, and 
smoothed and patted it, and fitted a thimble to her 
finger, and made very little stitches—the most beau¬ 
tiful little picture that a man could see. 

“Did Marjory sew, Gavin?” said Janet. 

Gavin laughed. “Marjory sew! I never saw Mar¬ 
jory with a needle in my life,” said he, and smiled 
at his wife sitting with her head bent over the 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


313 


stitches—and there are men who think themselves 
clever. 

But Irene looked up. “She was a beautiful 
sewer/ ’ said she. 

“How on earth do you know that?” said Gavin. 

“I've looked at the monogram on your hankies,” 
said Irene, and Janet Erskine petted her and made 
much of her for a clever domesticated little wife, 
just as, I am sure, Rebecca would do long ago with 
her gentle kinswomen in the presence of the daugh¬ 
ters of the desert, who were the wives of her wild son 
Esau. 

And in the kitchen Dungannon told Pate and 
Mairi of the fine girl Kitty. 

“My sang,” said Mairi, “she's not wanting in 
courage the lass that will take you, Dungannon, with 
your touring round the world, and up and down in 
it, and wearying always for the fine things ye left 
behind.” 

Dungannon smiled gently. 

“Sowl, she has the word to stop them manoeuvres,” 
said he; “whenever I do be thinking like that, Kitty 
stamps her foot at me. ‘Quit it,' she says, and d'ye 
know, av I had knowed that word twenty years ago 
I would be in my mother’s place yonder beside a 
turf fire.” 

“Ouch,” said Pate, “I aye think the grasshopper 
and the jumping-jack enjoy the change o’ scenery 
with every hop.” 

“Pate is getting old,” said Mairi to Dungannon; 
“I whiles think his head is not just what it was. 

And Pate turned to his wife with the look of a 
man whose wife has a sharp tongue, and who, by his 
gentleness and quiet strength, has calmed many 


314 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


storms. “You had aye the head, Main,” said he, 
but Dungannon caught his wink for all that—and 
there are women who think themselves clever. 

In the grey day Gavin lifted the arm of his wife 
from his shoulder very gently to rise, but Irene 
was awake at his first movement, and her eyes 
questioning. 

“I would like to try the sea again,” said he. 
“Stay you where you are till the day is aired—you 
look like a kitten.” 

Irene raised herself on her elbow. “Well, I’m 
coming too,” said she, “if you must leave me, Gavin 
—in the middle of the night.” Irene pouted, look¬ 
ing very beautiful, with sleep yet hazy about her. 

“If I must leave you,” Gavin mocked, “you soft 
little baby. Do you think I would have you shiver¬ 
ing? Stay you here till I come back for you, with 
fine cold hands.” 

“Well, I want you to do something for me,” said 
Irene; “I want you to take me to the Look-Out, Jim. 
I think I want to tell you a secret there—now, ’ ’ said 
she, “go away and bathe.” 

In the clear sunlight of a frosty morning in winter 
Gavin and Irene walked slowly over the shoulder of 
the hill, and came to the pond where of yore the wild 
duck gathered, and on past the little stunted bushes, 
upwards to the Look-Out; and below them in the 
firth, grey and raking and sinister, two destroyers 
returned from convoy duty, and the salt was white 
on their smoke-stalks. But for them on the wide sea 
nothing moved. 

After a little searching Gavin found the iron ring, 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


315 


black and rust-pitted, and with a great heave he 
opened the trap-door and went down, and held np 
his arms for his wife. 

And there was green lichen growing on the old 
chest, and the canvas windows were ragged and 
tattered, like an Irishman’s pennant, and there was 
on the sill of the window a bird’s nest crumbling. 
And on the horns of the viking helmet there was a 
bluish hairy mould growing, but the ferns were 
grown very large, and the air of the place was fresh 
but for a little dampness. 

Gavin turned to his wife. 

‘‘Do you remember, dear,” said he, “how you 
called this place a cellar? Lord, the dreams I 
dreamed here—and you were the best of all.” 

But Irene was gazing on the floor, at the place 
where Gavin had fallen, and the great red pool had 
formed, for there was a little circle of toad-stools 
growing on the spot. 

They opened the chest and took out Katherine, like 
a little mummy in her wrappings, and Irene moved 
her in her hands and laughed. 

“Her eyes still open and shut,” said she, and 
hugged the doll, and looked at her man under her 
long lashes; but Gavin was spreading the white 
sheepskin rug on the bench and gathering old Mairi’s 
lost gear as though he had it in his mind to return 
them, but Irene put her hand on his and made him 
leave them be. 

“Do you remember a girl kissed you, Jim in here 
it was— before you had learned kissing?” and she 
pulled him gently beside her on the bench. “Do 
you think she was a very bold—not at all a nice 
girl?” 


316 


GAVIN DOUGLAS 


“I remember/’ said Gavin, “her lips made a little 
soft moving under mine. She hadn’t learned kissing 
either, not properly, but she was the most beautiful 
little soft woman in all the world.” 

“I’m glad,” cried the girl, “I’m glad you thought 
she was beautiful, but she doesn’t get much practice 
in kissing—not very much—and I’m sure she would 
be an apt pupil; but wait a moment—well, that will 
do for a minute, Gavin—do you remember telling 
me we might want this place again?” 

Gavin nodded. 

“Well, I think we will not take back these old 
spoons and things, because this would be a very 
nice place to come to—just ourselves—if we wished 
to be very young and silly; and when you go away 
to the Army and forget me, I think I will want to 
come here all by myself—and cry sometimes—and 
write to you, and—and there’s something I want to 
tell you, but you must look away the other way, 
sweetheart, and not into my eyes any more—well, 
not very much more,” and Irene put her head 
against her husband’s breast and snuggled close to 
him. And then her little nostrils moved. “You 
have perfume on this tunic, ’ ’ she said, drawing a lit¬ 
tle away from him. 

“Perfume?” said Gavin. “I haven’t worn this 
tunic since the morning we went to the Pyramids. 
It must be your perfume. I remember your hair.” 

“That isn’t my perfume,” said Irene, “that’s— 

that’s Ma-” Suddenly she opened the button 

on the tunic pocket and thrust in her hand. Her 
face was a little bleak; with her hand still in the 
pocket, she looked at Gavin. “Bend,” she whis¬ 
pered—“closer yet,” said Irene. Her foot moving 



GAVIN DOUGLAS 


317 


crushed the toad-stools on the floor, hut Gavin gath¬ 
ered her into his arms. 

“And you wanted the Look-Out for him,” said he. 

“I would like him to he a bird of the mountains,” 
said Irene, and took her hand from the tunic pocket 
and sprinkled a little sand on the crushed toad¬ 
stools—perfumed sand. 

“And that’s the last of the desert,” said Gavin, 
looking at his wife as she wished to he looked at. 

“Come,” said Irene, “for Dr. Campbell will be 
waiting for us,” and then, “they’re full of tricks 
these Eastern—people.” 

And when they came above the whitewashed house 
and looked down into the hay, a great convoy of 
ships was sailing for the entrance and the sun shining 
bravely, and on the green turf close to the sea a man 
was waving, and with him James Douglas and Janet 
Erskine. 

“Yonder’s the doctor,” said Gavin; “come and 
meet him, but on your life, Irene, on your life, do 
not mention the massacre of Glencoe.” 


the end 




















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